The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  “Wit’ the two dozen barrels of powder at the stern, behind the planks.” Ned got that out very fast, before the distraught figure of Sir Welkin was once more pushed out of the way by his shorter and rounder companion.

  Sir Welkin, now clearly distraught, waved a hand towards the group of monks. “You three, search the ship again!”

  The monks in the line of his commanding finger shrugged and looked towards their leader. The Fourth Inquisitor stepped out from the veil of the shadows and gave an exasperated curse in Spanish as he glanced between the vessel and the dark bulk of the Tower. But apart from frowning in exasperation, Don Juan Sebastian made no move.

  Belsom, however, was keener to find his promised victims than the missing gold or Gonne powder, and once more had his hands clenched on Ned’s doublet. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where have they got to, Bedwell?”

  A further attempted shake rattled his brain. Ned tried to stay focused but the punches and slaps had blurred his thinking, not to mention what demands the pain was making on his ringing head.

  With about as much success as a gnat at a bull, Sir Welkin tried to pull Belsom around to answer his shrill demands. “What’s all this about powder and a bill? Belsom, what swindle are you trying? You told me he accepted six hundred for the ship and everything. So where are they?”

  “Shut up, you pizzle brained idiot! We’ve got to find out where the girl and the merchant are for tomorrow! Those are the orders. He was very emphatic. It’s us or them! The powder and the bill is moonshine. Isn’t it Bedwell?”

  Belsom was shaking with red faced anger. Apparently he really needed those weapons. Or was it something else? Ned tried to connect the reasoning and it came back to him in a rush. More’s pursuivant was the strong arm behind the powder trade. How else could Edwards and Watkins strut along the riverside so carelessly? That would make the next part all the easier.

  “To Hell and all with the girl and your master! What deal did you make with Bedwell and the Hanse?” Sir Welkin was beginning to sound desperate. His money had vanished and his partner was only concerned with the hidden ironware.

  Ned managed a bleary eyed glance around. The minions were starting to look edgy, nervously fiddling with their sword hilts, while the large band of ‘monks’ that had arrived with the Spaniard clearly looked disgruntled, muttering amongst themselves.

  “They’s at Petty Wales fo’ the p’wder clerk and the rest o’ the barrels!” That came out mostly right, except for the gobbet of blood he spat out. That last blow must have cut the inside of his cheek open. It was well worth it though. That last little snippet of information had set off more discord and discontent, more fracturing of purpose. It always helped the story along to add in a touch of truth.

  “I ses kill ‘im now!” The evil voice of the Third Inquisitor returned and resolved into the snarling features of Clemmie Watkins. He still looked keen, though this time his eyes sparked more with angry panic than anticipation.

  Ned could see the shocked expression on the face of Belsom as he stepped back and rounded on his partners in an angry squeal. “What’s the powder clerk to do with this? What’s going on Welkin? You assured me it was all fine. You said none knew of the plot!”

  However the Master of the King’s Ordinance was more concerned with other matters. He swung around and pointed a trembling hand at his pair of powder sorters. “Edwards! You told me he was dead and dumped in the river!”

  Then a further realisation lent a harder, shriller quality to Blackford’s trembling cry. “You treacherous dock rats! It was you selling the powder along the river. I’ll teach you to play the cross biters with me!” Sir Welkin made a fumbled grab at his sword.

  Edwards and Watkins drew their own short bladed swords and moved to the side of the wall, away from Blackford, who now stood on the end of the wharf, blade in hand, quivering in rage. The taller one with the peacock’s feather in his cap sneered at his former master. That would be Edwards thought Ned. Mary reckoned he was the brains of the pair, while Watkins was the ready knife. “If yer were fool enough naught t’ see the gilt in this, then damn yer fo’ a mouldy sack maggot!”

  The rest of Welkin’s men slowly drew their blades. They looked uncertainly towards their shaken lord, who was backing away from his former powder sorters. Ned could have laughed. Dr Caerleon had said greed would be their weakness.

  Edwards didn’t seem fussed by the numbers and called to Belsom. “If’n yer want’s yer cut o’ the gold, you’ll see us safe!”

  Sir Roderick seemed torn between his orders and the sudden beckoning of hundreds of golden advantages. The thought of six hundred sovereigns that could remain his seemed too much a temptation for the friendship of traitors. A brisk wave and a dozen of his men cautiously advanced on their former allies. So now there where two or more factions squaring off in the tight space on the dock, lit by the flare of several lanterns. So much for the trusting nature of treachery. Ned wished Gryne’s men hadn’t been bundled into the next door warehouse. Even disarmed they would have created a useful distraction.

  The Spaniard, however, was not impressed with the falling out of his English companions. He made some sort of sneering remark to one of the ‘monks’ holding Ned, then turning his back on the scene, shook his head and strode off toward the Tower gate, issuing a chilling command over his shoulder. “Bring Bedwell and Welkin! Kill the rest!”

  Before the Spaniard’s monks could oblige, a tall cadaverous figure with long, lanky hair sauntered into the flickering spill of light on the now edgily crowded wharf. “Why bless the saints! It’s me old friend, Red Ned. Why is thou troublin’ an’ threatin’ poor Ned, when all knows I ‘as a prior claim on ‘is hide?”

  It was chillingly familiar with the same dangerously lilting cadence from across the river at Southwark. A rush of fear spiralled up Ned’s spine, clearing his head of the pain. What in the name of everything holy was Canting Michael doing here? Asking for him?

  Then the wharf exploded—in blood, smoke and steel.

  ***

  Chapter 31. Turmoil and Affray, The Tower Wharf Riverside, Night–time, 10th June

  If Ned’s first inkling of a change in circumstance was the sudden apparition of Canting Michael, then a firmer hint was the thunder that sounded from down the end of the wharf. An orange–red plume gouged the darkness and Ned could swear he saw the flicker of an object fly between him and the wall to his left. If any of the gathering had been confused by the recent falling out, that was nothing to the chaos caused in the next instant.

  Lady Fortuna had a very strange way of cancelling out her favours and rebalancing debts. In this case Clemmie Watkins was its recipient. Ned could see that the Doutch Gonners had downplayed the effects of their charges during their description of battle. The missile must have impacted square on his chest, exploding his torso and spraying his companions in crime and neighbours with an assortment of internal organs. Just for a moment the wharf went silent as all the varied participants looked at the space that once held the former powder sorter. After that all present universally tracked the path of the projectile back to the supposedly empty Ruyter and the falconet that had discharged it.

  Then the uproar began and several different events seemed to happen almost simultaneously. Don Juan Sebastian screamed out another order and several of his men seized a shocked Sir Welkin, dragging him towards the landward end of the wharf. A ragged cheer erupted from the formerly deserted ship and a wave of weapon wielding men jumped over its side landing on the wharf. Another body of armed men coalesced around Canting Michael, challenging the passage of Don Juan Sebastian and the thirty odd monks with him.

  Unbelievably, Sir Roderick chose that instant to become martially inspired, and waving his sword over his head, commanded his retainers to rally to him. Ned however used the opportunity for something else—getting free.

  Already alerted by the disturbing presence of Canting Michael, Ned had been watching for just such a chance. There was no way he was goin
g to stick around for the tender care of the Southwark gang lord. So as the Gonne’s roar snapped the heads of his three guards in the direction of the ship, and after the immediate dissolution of Master Watkins, Ned kicked down hard and threw all his weight backwards breaking their grip.

  Even for experienced soldiers who’d served in the bloody fray between the Imperials and the French, at the very instance of combat there was a second’s hesitation as each warrior weighted up his chances of survival. With the frightening use of artillery on the battle field, that decision assumed more importance. Having seen the powder sorter next to them explode, and noting the widening gap between them and of the rest of their company, the ‘monks’ legged it.

  Ned was left lying on the wharf, blinking white spots out of his vision and wondering why his head was ringing. Rolling over with a groan, he looked towards the chaotic scene between the ship and him. It was worse than any inter parish footebul game. The lantern’s light gave a pallid illumination of men heaving and struggling together, locked in vicious battle. The pools of light displayed the fight in passing flickers, the descent of cudgels or the sparking clash of blades, while screams of pain survived well enough in the shadows.

  Ned shook his head to clear the last of the numbing ache. It didn’t work too well. He pushed himself up with the aid of a supporting timber wall, and tried to figure out the pattern of the fight. From the use of cleavers, he assumed that the rest of Gryne’s promised reinforcements had arrived. They must have rowed across from Bermondsey and silently clambered up the side of the empty ship. Well that was good news!

  Another roar punctured the night. Ned instinctively ducked, though he needn’t have bothered. The missile took out two of his three former guards as they’d reached the struggle by Canting Michaels men. Excellent choice! The fight on the dock was too mixed for a clear shot, though Ned did feel a justified sense of satisfaction. The ‘monk’ who’d been punching him was writhing on the ground, holding the bloody stump of his right arm.

  The sound of shouts and smashing timber drew Ned’s attention to the other side of the battle. His first contingent of Gryne’s men were trying to break out of their temporary prison, but the heavy door was making that difficult. The other combatants were too engaged in mutual mayhem to take any notice of the cries or hammering on the door.

  Ned knew what he had to do, but first he needed some weapons. The swirl of combat was separated into two distinct groups. On his right, five paces away, was the struggle on the dock, while to his left the Canting Michael–Don Juan Sebastian conflict raged on, blocking the narrow roadway past the edge of the dock and its flanking buildings.

  When Ned’s company had been forced to surrender, their arms had been piled up towards the end of the dock, on the eastern side of the warehouse, and under the menacing maw of one of the Great Gonnes. That had been the source of the first disagreement of the evening. This had been between Blackford and Belsom over whose care they were to be entrusted. Ned had felt he’d done a good job by backing Belsom’s claim, quoting the usages of war. Blackford had become quite waspish, reminding his erstwhile partner that the docks and all their accoutrements were under his purview, and it was his Gonnes that effected the capture. Stirring the pot just that bit further, Ned had ruminated upon the fact that the ‘captaine of artillerie’ was entitled to two fifths of captured booty. Of course it went on from there, each man standing stiffly on their rights.

  Now Ned was trying to cross the dangerous fringe of battle to gain the weapon horde. Master Sylver, in his lessons on defence, had advocated a less flashy style, leaning heavily on survivability, and when it came to being unarmed in a melee, the suggestion was ‘don’t attract attention’. Ned dropped down to the timber decking of the wharf and scuttled across, using the soggy remnants of Clemmie Watkins as cover. The dead powder sorter was on his back, eyes wide with terminal surprise at his end. Ned tried to avoid crawling through the spreading pool of blood and fragments, while holding his breath and quelling his rebellious stomach. The falconet was considered small in the brotherhood of Gonnes but was certainly still a fearsome weapon. The master of defence’s advice was correct. He made it to the armaments, and while kneeling down, quickly buckled on his sword and dagger.

  Once armed Ned reviewed his options. If he charged towards the moored vessel, about ten paces should put him by the barred doorway. Three of Belsom’s men stood guard. They’d obliviously heard the thumping. One was fending off a tentative attack, while his companions braced the wedged door. Ned wasn’t a gallant fool. Since his training he could match one skilled opponent and maybe fend off two. Three wasn’t an option, unless he wanted a quick death. He needed an edge. Inspiration struck—the pistols!

  He spun back to the stacked weapons. Those two little beauties had been the start of Blackford and Belsom’s bickering. The Master of Ordinance had a habit of not supervising his underlings’ acquisitions. He didn’t know about that splendid brace of the gunsmith’s art, but Belsom did. The wheellocks had been very carefully placed by the wall, away from tempted fingers and behind the cleavers. Ned had to stretch past chipped edges of the blades, before cautiously pulling them out. Once in hand he rapidly checked the spring, flash pan and the jaw–clamped firestone. All seemed to be fine. Rob had warned that the wheel lock mechanism didn’t take to shocks or staying in tension too long. Ned loosened his blades and made the last of his preparations. He needed to take advantage of the confused melee.

  Ned had taken up the offer of defence training on the suggestion of Mistress Black, and as loath as he was to admit it, she’d been right. So far he was still alive to prove the value of the rigorous exercises. However, Master Sylver taught much more than how to use a sword. He delved into the deeper matters of battle, the vital influence of leadership, tactics, strategy and especially how to read a fight as you would a cartographer’s chart. As in his training, Ned gave the combat field a quick survey to fix the locations of friends and foes, before he launched into battle. Then he caught the flicker of movement on the other side of the dock. Someone was standing by the second Great Gonne and they were trying to light the linstock. A sudden flash of sparks illuminated the snarling face and feathered cap of John Edwards. It struck Ned that he had been granted a vision. That single moment in battle all great commanders prayed for, the key to victory! In this instant, rescuing the rest of his company was irrelevant. If the murderous powder sorter got that slow match lit and set off the Gonne, then everyone on the wharf would be dead! He made his decision, dagger in hand, and shoving one of the pistols into his belt, Ned jumped up and ran across the dock.

  A battle was never a stationary affair, with both sides locked hand to hand and foot to foot as the poets would have us believe. It was fluid, swaying to and fro, as men shifted and sparred to gain position or recover defence. Ned chose an opening that had briefly appeared and dove through it. He felt his shoulders brush past the sharp edges of blades, and heard the harsh grunts of men trying to kill or be killed. He ignored all that, his eyes fixed on the target. One snarling figure tried to block his way and unconsciously he dropped his body. The blow swung over his head and Ned, still in motion, slashed the blade in his left hand across the back of his opponent’s thigh. His enemy dropped to the ground, cursing with hands wrapped around the bleeding leg. Two paces to go and the dagger was knocked from his hand. Rather than recover it, Ned threw his body forward, tucking his head in and landing under the snarling mouth of the Gonne in a roll.

  It hurt. It hurt a lot, especially when his shoulder hit the iron shod wheel. Pushing past that, Ned clambered up using the spokes as a ladder and beheld the most terrifying sight. Johnnie Edwards was blowing the match into a furnace bright glow, and as Ned emerged on the other side of the Gonne, he was in the act of applying it to the Gonne’s powder train. Ned didn’t flinch. He lunged across the barrel of the Gonne, left hand outstretched, and scattered the pile of black powder. The fiery end of the match seared into the back of his hand and Ned cursed at the pa
in.

  “Damn y’ Bedwell. I’ll teach y’ to meddle!” Edwards dropped the linstock and drew his dagger. It was one of those northern style blades, long and tapering. The edge glittered wickedly in the lantern light. It was the sort of weapon used to eviscerate a bear in one blow. Edwards looked like he knew how to use it and gave an experimental slash that ripped a piece off Ned’s outstretched sleeve.

  The powder sorter gave an evil grin and snorted with anticipation. Ned, however, was getting angry. This red handed bastard had created all this mess, the murders, the Gonne powder, the ambush and a disappearance. Originally Ned had planned to capture the treacherous powder sorter and put him to the question. That consideration evaporated before his wrath. As Edwards lunged over the Gonne, Ned pushed himself backwards, swung up his right hand and pulled the trigger. The wheellock spun. The jaw dropped the firestone onto the wheel sparking across to the open flash pan, and the advancing face of Edwards disappeared in a cloud of fire, smoke and brimstone.

  Ned hit the opposite wall as the smoke cleared. Rob had been right. They were a very good set of pistols, and at less than five feet, deadly accurate. The powder sorter’s body was sprawled over the carriage of the Gonne, slumped face downwards. The back of Edwards head was missing. The ball had removed it and the contents leaked over the dark timber, dripping onto the floor. Ned cautiously swallowed. He did not want to see anymore.

  Despite his heroic effort the battle on the dock was still raging, and Ned was in a quandary as to how to stop the mayhem. He couldn’t use Edward’s plan. That was just the wholesale removal of everyone, though without the reminder of the threat of the Gonne, more would fall. He pulled out a kerchief and used it to wrap his burnt hand, and as he cursed the now dead powder sorter, he had an idea. Could it work?