The prospect of the journey’s end at such a paradise was, for Ned, very appealing, that was until a bitterly rebellious thought spurred a question to Rob Black, the oarsman to his front. “All right we’re here. Now how do we get these damned barrels off?”
His friend waved his head over his shoulder towards the distant bank. “Past the trees you should be able to see a dock and crane.”
Ned dropped his sweep for moment and peered over the top of the barrels in the indicated direction. Yes, by all the saints, saved from one labour at least! As the vessel pulled beyond the cover of trees, the scene became clearer and to Ned more pleasing. Not only was it a decent sized crane, similar in size to the ones along the London wharves, but it also had its own complement of treadmill labourers to power it. Somehow, the saints only knew how, he’d had the sneaking suspicion that as well as being cony catched into rowing the vessel, he’d also be required to unload the cargo. His daemon whimpered that it was a very, very small mercy, a very small mercy indeed.
Finally their vessel bumped alongside the wharf, joining a small flotilla of other cargo barges, as well as four more stately vessels replete with heraldic crests and banners. Ned, unlike some, didn’t spend all his time hanging around the Royal Court, so the riot of colours and badges of the rowers sprawled on the bank weren’t that familiar. Though it did relay one message; visits to Queen Katherine were still on the agenda of at least some of the Kingdom’s high nobility.
Two of their crew leapt onto the wharf and tied the vessel fast, while Emma stepped carefully ashore to supervise the rest of the off loading. This must have been a common port of call from her nonchalant disregard of the palace. Ned watched all this with a jaundiced eye while cautiously stretching his arms and fingers, giving small winces as each tendon straightened painfully. The likewise painful kinks in his shoulders and back he’d save for a more private occasion, where his resulting screams wouldn’t be so demeaning or so overheard.
He joined Rob standing under a multi trunk elm to watch the unloading via crane. Ned had seen this before in the city, almost every day as a matter of fact. However it was still fascinating to watch. A couple of men would spin a vertical cogged wheel that slowly angled the crane until it was over their vessel. Then at the call of the gang sergeant, the fellows inside the large wooden framed drum would clamber up the slatted rungs, turning the great wheel. That slowly released the tensioned drum of rope as it fed through the crane eye until the slackened rope was fastened on to the coarse woven net rigged around a tun of ale. Then on the command, the treadmill men would clamber in the opposite direction, once more turning the wheel and coiling in the rope as it wound around the drum, hauling the slung cargo skywards. After that another team would swing the crane with its load until it was positioned over a waiting cart and then slowly deposit it, all the while under the watchful eye and sharp tongue of Mistress Emma. As Rob Black always said, ahh for the marvels of modern mechanical artifice!
“You know Rob, you could have warned me about the boat trip.” Ned had expected more support from his friend who now looked decidedly sheepish over his pronounced silence at the Steelyard docks.
“Well, ahh Ned, you should know…it’s very difficult to stop Meg once she has an idea and…well, she sort of implied, ahh, that you wouldn’t mind a journey on the river.”
Ned considered making more of an issue of this pretence, but Rob appeared so stricken with guilt, as though he was a young boy caught with his hand in the comfits pot. Anyway hadn’t he also suffered the frequent impulsive misrepresentations of Meg Black? That sleight of hand with Walter Dellingham at Christmas still rankled. His angel primly reminded him that his own jealousy and pride was all too frequently at fault. To that all he could say was, damn his seductively whispering daemon!
Further consideration of his plight was abruptly curtailed when a ragged smock and doublet hit him in the face. “What!”
“Put this on Master Bedwell.”
At the snarky, imperious command, Ned pulled the offending garment off his front and held it at arms length all the while glaring at the giver, Meg treachery be her name Black. “Arghh! This stinks of offal and horse dung!”
“Good, then it will suit you!”
Ned looked daggers at the lass before him, dressed in all the finery of high station, while he had just been obligated to act the part of the menial labourer these past two hours and now to dress the part of turd carter. For a moment he considered flinging the rags down and unleashing his mounting and justifiable anger.
Well ahh…if…if…
If it wasn’t for that mischievous twinkle that lit her eye and the meaningful tilt of her eyebrow. Not for the first time he was forced to reconsider his reaction. Sometimes, just occasionally enough mind, Margaret insufferable Black displayed sufficient forethought to make him go along with her hare brained schemes. With a barely suppressed oath, he handed his clutched fine doublet and shirt to Rob, then donned the repulsive garb, rammed on the ragged cap and slouched off three paces behind the pair of strutting girls amongst the rest of Emma’s crew. Interestingly, Rob and Gruesome Roger made no move to join them, instead staying on the wharf. Ned did make a note of Roger’s non existent attempts to stifle his mirth at the parade, while Rob suddenly seemed inordinately interested in the crane device.
Ned tried to console himself that at least he now had a better chance to view the palace. The towers were topped with pepper pot domes, each crested with decorated, gilt weather vanes that spun slowly in the light breeze. It was a large complex of buildings, divided into what must be the Privy lodgings on the southern river side and a Great Hall at least a hundred foot long on the west. The road to the palace cut through the orchard and gardens that lined the river meadow, and they followed the trundling wagons to the western side, towards what must be the kitchens and buttery. Its location was given away by the smell of cooking vented through the louvered roof that wafted enticingly overhead, beckoning them on.
Ned soon found that the great livery kitchen was their destination indeed. Here the two girls were instantly enfolded in the generous embrace and booming welcome of an expansive fellow, whom from his sweating brow and stained apron that covered an ample breadth of finery, must be the master cook.
It would seem that neither were strangers here and that raised another set of intriguing questions regarding the diversity of Mistress Black’s contacts. He would have thought that considering the almost common knowledge of her heretical leanings, that here was one place it would’ve been more prudent to shun. Ned was, however, given little time to consider this further since with a hefty clout he was set to unloading the wagons and rolling the barrels into the stone arched buttery, under the watchful eye of the under cook. The two girls of course were entertained by the kitchen master, with a tasting of some game pies fresh from the oven. Ned’s daemon noted sourly that life really wasn’t fair!
It was a large space, cool and dark behind a doubled locked, heavy timber door. The room must have stored enough food for hundreds, if not thousands when the King was in residence, holding festivities and pageants. For here, those days of feasting and celebration seemed to have pasted. The whole area was only a quarter full. This palace had an interesting history of tenants. Recently it had been briefly swapped with Cardinal Wolsey for his new sumptuous estate of Hampton Court near London. At the Inns of Court the word was that Lady Anne Boleyn was instrumental in that arrangement. Rumour had claimed that on viewing it she said that ‘it more became a monarch’s honour that a cleric’s pretensions’. No matter—political prudence dictated that it be given to his lord and master, and then Cardinal Wolsey had, in recompense, received the older buildings of Richmond.
A more cynical man may have expected the Cardinal to spend his immense wealth transforming this place, before a further re–allocation of estates. However during his latest tenure, he had belatedly expressed an interest in matters divine, and had supposedly spent a great deal of time with the monks in residence at th
e chapel. The courtiers who had gathered around my lord Suffolk had made some caustic remarks about Wolsey and his newly found frequenting of pious poverty.
Suggestions of that ilk must have percolated through to His Majesty, since this palace was once more in royal hands. In fact the Cardinal had still been in residence here until a few months ago, when it had firmly been hinted that it was about time the Archbishop of York took up residence in his ‘own’ diocese far to the north. Most of the court factions had received that information with wry amusement. In all the period of His Grace’s tenure, the Cardinal had only visited his Episcopal seat once, and that was in passing on an embassy to Scotland.
Since the King was now spending most of his time at Hampton Court and York Palace in the company of Lady Anne, Richmond now served another use, the official residence of Katherine of Aragon, the Queen of England. Well she was that until Henry found a way to put her aside. That had in part been the reason for the disgrace of Wolsey. His papal commission with Cardinal Campeggio had crashed under the combined evasiveness of Pope Clement and the intransigence of Katherine, whose nephew fortuitously was his Imperial Highness, Charles V, overlord of the extensive Hapsburg dominions.
So here he was in Richmond Palace as directed by his good lord, Councillor Cromwell, to do…what? That part of the instruction was vague—look into some sort of irregularity or problem? That in itself was a difficulty since there were any number of areas to investigate, and how was he expected to do that within a day or so and try and solve the other two insurmountable problems that also overwhelmed him. Whatever his task was, it wasn’t going to happen in the buttery. Ned ducked outside, evading the eye of the undercook and dodged behind another wall by the edge of the central court. It was a very attractive spot complete with a small fountain spraying water in short jets. He had to find some space to think. Unconsciously he found himself pacing the courtyard tracing the intricate pattern of tiles.
What sort of problems in the Queen’s household would concern a man like Cromwell? Well money could be one. It must be expensive to have to run a separate Royal household and the gouging here would be pretty fierce, from the myriad of officials and servants. But despite the allure Ned didn’t think that was it. Cromwell could have sent a bevy of clerks under Ralph Sadleyer if that was the case.
No, it had to be something more immediate, more imperative and, ahem, not to be too self deprecating, something even he’d be able to spot. That came down to only a couple of options. The first was intriguing but unlikely. The Queen’s maids of honour used to have a very poor reputation. They had been acting well, not very maidenly, and that had also been linked with a scandal regarding the Queen’s former confessor, Friar Diego Fernandez. It had been widely bruited about that he dealt with the maids much more personally than just at the confessional. It was said that cleansing one’s soul was very much a ‘hand on’ experience when it involved the Friar. The result was he was banished years ago, but still the whiff of scandal had perpetuated. That reputation had not been aided by the King almost openly taking up with another of the Queen’s former maids, the Lady Anne.
But despite all that, Ned didn’t think Cromwell wanted him to check on the maidenly virtues at Richmond, as interesting assignment as that may appear, so that depressingly left one last option—the King’s Great Matter, the driver of every political action in the kingdom for the past two years, the separation from Katherine, or as it was more correctly termed the nullity of the marriage. Last year’s failure had already cost Wolsey his dominance in the kingdom. So the man who could succeed was in an enviable position. The rewards of a grateful King were unimaginable—power, position and wealth were but some. However there was a simple flaw in all this that one of the brighter fellows at the Inns of Court had correctly perceived.
Katherine was Queen of England and she liked being Queen very much. Whether the later marriage to Henry as his older brother’s widow was canonically legal or not was pretty irrelevant, since all such matters were solely within the purview of the Church. Now when it came to royal marriages, the granting of dispensations was directly in the hands of the Pope.
At that point of confluence lay the greatest problem, for Pope Clement had a reputation for indecision and evasion that was legendary. It was said that he could agree with several different views on the same subject between one sip of wine and the next. However on one matter he was adamant, keeping Charles V as far away and as happy as possible, especially since the Imperial army had sacked Rome a few years ago and now sat a few days march away, a constant source of hovering coercion. Its presence and the fact that Pope Clement had crowned Charles, Holy Roman Emperor a few months ago also gave an indication as to which way the Papal mood was currently tracking.
So as a consequence, Queen Katherine was here in theoretical exile, separated from the Royal Court, where she was supposed to be isolated from any potential supporters or sympathizers. However with only a couple of Royal guards dozing by the old moat gatehouse and the Imperial ambassador in London, a two hour row away, that barrier was extremely permeable. And Katherine, since she had arrived in the Kingdom some decades ago, had built up a reasonable number of ‘friends’ and ‘clients’, ranging from Bishop Fischer who had spoken in her defence to some of the more prominent old nobility. When viewed like that, the problems multiplied like Satan’s imps.
Ned’s growing despondency was cut short by an abrupt shout. “You, varlet—come here!”
Damn, he had forgotten where he was. Instinct turned him towards the caller and his shoulder daemon suggested that he adopt the vacant expression of someone whose parents had been entirely too closely related. It was a priest, grey haired and whippet thin, who stood at the entrance to the Privy Lodgings beckoning imperiously. Ned acquired a shuffling gait borrowed from his uncle’s more practiced servitors.
The priest seemed very impatient and frowned at the tardy approach then barked out a snarled phrase in Latin, imploring the Lord’s aid in dealing with the slow witted. As part of his charade, Ned gave an idiotic smile and crossed himself, thanking the Holy Father for the kind blessing. That got a weary shake of the head as a hand grabbed the scruff of his smock, pulling him into the south wing of the palace.
“You know where the Privy kitchens and buttery are?”
Ned gave a humble, snivelling reply pleading ignorance of the great house. The fellow gave a despairing brush at the dirt smeared badge of a pomegranate on Ned’s doublet and ‘tsked’ at the slovenliness of his new minion and his unworthiness to wear her Majesty’s livery. Then with a rough push, he propelled Ned unsteadily along, making a further muttered plea to the Almighty for patience and cursed the chamberlain for retaining so many errant naves and fools in the Queen’s household. Finally unsatisfied with the progress, the priest’s firm hand locked on the ragged collar and he dragged Ned off into the corridors of the house. From what Ned could see in a snatched glimpse or two between stumbles, His Majesty hadn’t stinted in the decorations, with extensive wood panelling and floor to ceiling tapestries. Eventually the traverse ended when the priest thrust him into a stone–arched, fortified room, similar to the one in the Livery kitchen. This one however was very different, packed with all sort of luxuries, casks of fine sack wine, racks of moulded sugar, boxes redolent of spices and several tall wicker baskets full to the brim of oranges. If only Meg could see this—it contained the stock of the apothecary but several dozen times over.
Wack! The priest struck him across the back of the head. “Don’t gawp fool. Grab two of those baskets and follow!”
Ned rubbed the nape of his neck. The cleric had a heavy hand, but he did as instructed and laboured after the striding man, dragging the instructed oranges. Eventually they reached a set of rooms on the third floor, over looking the riverside orchard. The priest must have been expected, for the guard gave a bow of reverence opened the door and waved them in.
At that instant Ned knew that if he had been in trouble before, he was really for it now. He gave
a bob of obeisance and hauled the requested oranges into the presence of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Katherine, the object of Henry’s current petition. She was not alone—now he understood the liveried barges on the riverside.
Ned would have recognised the older woman anywhere. After all he had last seen her the two days ago at the Tower. The Dowager Duchess of Buckingham was sitting opposite a short plump woman with wisps of greying blond hair that poked out of her black velvet cap that was edged in pearls. Although it had been a few years ago, Ned recognised her from ceremonial pageants and Royal processions. The Queen made a flicking motion. Whether that was to the struggling minion or towards her escaping hair, Ned wasn’t sure. But just in case, he lugged the cargo over to a long trestle table covered in small baskets the like of which he’d seen Sir Welkin Blackford so stubbornly defend.
He did as instructed and stood, awaiting further instruction, looking as vacant eyed and gormless as possible, the perfect servant, as he secretly surveyed the other occupants of the room. One was a lady of the Court, about forty years of age, and the familial association with the older woman was unmistakable. Daughter or niece, it must be one or the other. She had the look of long bitter travails. They had etched her brow with lines and pinched her lips. The last one was more disturbing and Ned fervently prayed that he wasn’t recognised—that damned friar from outside the Bee Skep Tavern, the one he’d caused to be arrested was here! The fellow was bowing to the Queen, here of all places, as bold as brass, a great deal cleaner and better dressed in a new habit. Ned tried not to ogle or stand out in anyway. Actually he wished he could melt into the Turkish carpet that hung from the wall behind him. Backing him was another friar with his hood pulled forward, shadowing his face. The stance reminded Ned of one else, but he was at the present keener on fading into the background.
The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 15