Ned quickly moved onto a less contentious field. “What was Master Robinson working on before he disappeared?”
“Var…Various tasks. In all this confusion it is difficult to say. M–my new clerk is sorting through that now. If you return next week all will be ordered.”
So a lot of paper work had to be rewritten within seven days. Ned made a note of the interesting timeline. Sir Welkin gave a nervous smirk. It was plain he really wanted them gone, the sooner the better. To Ned that last answer reeked of falsehood. He was certain the Master of Ordinance knew exactly what Ben Robinson was working on when he vanished.
There had been sufficient evasion on both sides. Ned found it best to kept interviews brief before his opponents regained their equilibrium. Thus it was time to make Sir Welkin a happily relieved official. The search for truth was for now finished. Other parts of the Tower could bear further exploration, but first one must observe the social niceties. For instance, it was a common practice to reward cooperation and obligation, however little and unwilling it might have been given. The plays of social intercourse between gentlemen held that it was insulting to pay over coin, well not before a witness anyway, so Ned began the social convention of a ‘gift’.
“Sir Welkin I must thank you for your help in this. Your assistance will not go unnoticed. May I beg your indulgence?” That got his interest. The Master of Ordinance looked almost happy with a flood of insincere comments on the loss of such company and anything to assist the Council. If they gave out merit for grovelling, he’d be in Heaven already.
“I find myself at a loss. I have forgotten a present for my mistress and was wondering if you would part with that basket of oranges for, say, two angels.” In truth, for two angels he could have bought a barrel of oranges. It was the form of the gesture that made it not an outright bribe.
Since their arrival, Sir Welkin Blackford’s colour had been slowly improving. Not that it came close to approaching the deep crimson of their introduction. His prior pale, waxy hue of the terminally distressed had acquired a measure of what Doctor Caerleon called the balance of the humours. At Ned’s reasonable request his shocked pallor instantly returned and he stepped between his visitors and the inoffensive basket of fruit, almost protectively. “I…I fear not Master Bedwell. It is, ahh, not…not possible!” The reply was in a voice high pitched with anxiety. One would have thought Ned was offering to buy his daughter for the night.
“Come Sir Welkin, it is an honourable price. I would even go so far as four angels for the pleasure of my mistress.” He gave a brief wave that took in the discarded fruit baskets stacked almost four deep in the corners. “Surely sir, you can spare a few for a gentleman’s lady?”
That got a very odd reaction. For one thing, his friend Rob Black made a vain attempt to muffle a guffaw, while Sir Welkin, if it were at all possible, went even whiter and stammered out a very interesting refusal. “I…I…I can’t, even for a hundred angels! They’re a present from an aunt to my wife. I daren’t part with it, on my life!”
Oh ho, so it was that sort of situation! Ned felt a twinge of sympathy. Poor fellow, no wonder he was so keen on raking in the gilt. His wife must be seriously besotted with oranges to go through so many if the empty baskets were any indication. Oh well who could understand a woman’s mania? “Please forgive my presumption. I would not offend for all my honour. Was that your aunt who just left?”
At first the Master of Ordinance had calmed down at the apology, but when he’d made casual reference to the lady who had swept past them, you would have thought that Ned was informing him that he was going to have both his daughters and seize all the family silver. Sir Welkin’s kerchief fluttered about like an army’s banners in a rout as he stuttered a reply. “Ahh ...ahh…ahh, yes that was my aunt. Yes, definitely. She dotes on my wife, little presents and such all the time!”
Ned gave a generous smile as he noted the distress and pushed on. “To have kind relations must be a real comfort, Sir Welkin. I seem to remember seeing the lady at Court. However I fear I cannot recall a name.”
It was kindly said but not meant. There was a certain vicarious pleasure at watching this fellow, who’d driven Rob into rages from his greedy obstructions, quiver with sudden terror. The whole situation Ned felt just begged for retribution and both of them were now getting full reward. Sir Welkin must have the sort of in laws that were the basis for all those wicked tales of great aunts—the old dragons who came for a visit of a few days’ duration that stretched to months and were soon so well bedded down that in the end the family fled their house to another county to get away.
It must be so, for Sir Welkin stood there quietly gibbering in panic. Ned lent significantly against the door jamb, patiently awaiting a reply while he could hear Rob out in the corridor making a vain attempt to stop the peals of laughter by shoving his hand in his mouth. “It…it…it was the Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, Lady Eleanor Stafford!”
From the deep dragging reluctance of his answer you would have thought Sir Welkin was on the rack being put to the ‘Question’. To Ned that admission unlocked a host of answers. So Sir Welkin Blackford could claim a connection to one of the most prestigious families in England. There were many stories about Lady Eleanor, a very domineering and forthright woman according to rumour. That explained in part his distress, thought why a witnessed visit from his aunt should send him into such a blind panic was a mystery. “You are indeed blessed Sir Welkin, to have a kind and doting patroness, especially of so distinguished a lineage.”
From the look on the man’s face he would have been happier marrying into a clan of wild Scotch reivers. Ah well, they say you can choose your friend’s company or not, but family has to be endured. At that moment Ned had a vindictive flash of inspiration. “Sir as a sign of my regard and friendship for your assistance, when I next see your aunt at Court I will recount how worthy a gentleman you are, an ornament to His Majesty’s service.”
If the raw wounds of relations were still open and bleeding, then that was at least a pound or two of salt rubbed in. Ned smiled and gave one of his more impressive bows while the Master of Ordinance stood in stunned regard staring at him in horrified fascination. Their exit was preceded by Sir Welkin’s sniggering servant, Bottoph the minion. It was evident that he enjoyed his master’s discomfort, repeating Ned’s barbed comments in a hoarse voice, interspaced by the coughing bark of laughter. Ned shook his head in wry amusement. It just went to show, connections at court always trumped ability of service.
***
Chapter 7. The Modern Engines of War, Tower Courtyard, Afternoon, 6th June
Once they were in the Tower commons having shed their hobbling and cackling escort, Ned grabbed his friend’s shoulder and steered him behind the shelter of a clutter of timber frames on the western flank of the White Tower. “As you said Rob, Sir Welkin is useless. So who else can we ask about Ben Robinson?”
His friend was still chuckling over the discomfort of his nemesis and had to pause a moment before coming up with a considered reply. “When Welkin took the office most of lads were replaced with his cronies, except for the two Doutch Gonne artificers.”
“Who?”
“Hubrecht and Henryk van de Fonteyne. They’re brothers and masters of the craft from the Low Countries, Doutchmen. Welkin couldn’t get rid of them or there’d be none left who could actually work any of the great ordinance.”
To Ned that sounded up to Sir Welkin’s expected standard—strip the office of experienced men and sell off the positions. He thanked the blessed saints that right at this moment the kingdom was not actually at hard war, for it appeared that only a handful of men were left to service the needs of defence. “Where can we find them?”
“They’ll be down in the sheds by Flint Tower.” Rob pointed towards the northern set of walls and buildings. Ned gave an appraising glance to the sky. Well they had an hour left before the long twilight of summer, and so it should be safe enough for another tramp across the city
before full dark closed in.
Ned was very thankful Rob was with him. Otherwise it could have been hours before he found their quarry in the maze of buildings and equipment. When the men in question were discovered, they were working on the massive wheel of a great bronze gun over twenty foot in length. Ned had learned a little of his friend’s trade over the past few months so he at least recognised the monster gun as being one of the King’s ‘Twelve Apostles’, as his most fearsome engines were christened when His Majesty used them during the campaigns in France some dozen years ago.
As Ned drew closer, the brothers left off their work to turn and stare in curiosity at their visitors. When they stood up both men displayed an impressive breadth and girth. Put a furry skin on them and they would more than serve as bears for the pit baiting. Ned would readily place a purse of coin on those huge hands. Snapping the necks of mastiffs would be an easy accomplishment in comparison after grappling with the heavy timber and iron of a Gonne. In the shafts of late afternoon light the two Gonne artificers were black–grimed and scarred from their trade. A superstitious man would have instantly crossed himself at their uncanny resemblance to some lesser demons in service to the great bronze and iron monsters behind them.
Despite their foreboding appearance Rob Black’s greeting was met with kind and welcoming humour. Though their speech was slurred by a heavy accent, Ned had little trouble understanding and it gave him a boost in pride for his companion. These two experts in the latest mechanical arts appeared to treat Rob as a valued equal. All too commonly he had witnessed older masters of craft beat or abuse their apprentices and journeymen, seeing them as little better than dumb slaves and fools of little value or worth. For all its assumed dignity and learning, the Inns of Court had been the same with cuffs and cursing more common than praise. Occasionally he contemplated whether the roots of ill treatment lay in the fears created by the prospect of younger up and coming rivals.
After the welcoming banter Ned got down to the matter of his visit. He referred his questions to the older brother, Hubrecht, who boasted a forked beard of grey and brown bristles in the manner of the German merchants. He confirmed the timing of Ben Robinson’s disappearance and added that Master Robinson was most unimpressed by the change in leadership. According to Hubrecht he talked frequently of errors and mistakes, asking for their assistance to fix some of the more urgent problems. Since Benjamin Robinson was the senior remaining official under the new regime, just about everyone in the Tower complex came and complained to him about the practices of Sir Welkin. Ned acquired a new appreciation of the many and various ways the new Master of the King’s Ordinances had managed to offend everyone. There was a common saying that in the King’s service you could commit one or two of three sins without being dismissed: Greed, Stupidity and Arrogance. Sir Welkin proved to be the exception—he had committed all three in abundance and only royal grace or the highest favour shielded such imbeciles from the fruits of their actions.
Ned then, heard that Ben Robinson had tried immediately prior to his disappearance, to get the ear of the Governor of the Tower. Both brothers confirmed empathically that the missing clerk was very upset about something he had found, but whatever the problem had kept it close. Hubrecht then recounted the tenor of their last meeting. “Jah Miester Robinson said Sir Blackfood was a dolt and an Arsknodle.”
Ned tried to translate that last bit. Mostly the Doutch version of English made reasonable sense but now this term left him confused. Apparently though neither Henryk or Rob were similarly confused and both men doubled up with laughter. In due course a clumsy translation occurred with much grunting and miming gestures that left little to the imagination and had Ned wryly amused. Evidently it was a Doutch term of derision and referred to the dung remnants left clinging to a fellow’s arse fur after the act of ablution. He felt that it was a very apt description of Sir Welkin.
Ned pricked up his ears at the rest of the recalled conversation. “Miester Robinson then said that the list of Houdsleow Hedth was wrong and must be dealt with by the Governor forthwith, then he bid us farewell.”
Ned tried to figure that one out but failed. The accent was just too broad and so he asked Rob Black for another translation. All three artificers went into a huddle and a few expansive gestures later an English version via Rob emerged. “I think he means Hounslow Heath along the Great West road.”
Ned scratched his head perplexed at the answer. “What would be out in that God forsaken patch that could interest Master Robinson?”
Rob shrugged but Henryk the younger of the Doutch Gonner’s frowned and waved his hand in a westerly direction giving a slightly less Doutch accented answer. “Ja. Houdsleow, where the Knollenpulver ist made”
“What is that?” Ned tried his brain for a translation but only managed to come up with dumpling or bread powder and that really didn’t sound correct.
The brothers pointed to the Great Gonne behind them and made distinctive throwing gestures and booming noises.
“Ahh I understand, powder for the Gonnes and demi cannons!” The light of comprehension sparked behind Ned’s eyes and smiling he lent against the side of the bronze monster. He knew where he was going to be till late twilight. “Please, tell me all about it.”
This certainly widened Ned’s knowledge. The more he heard regarding the great bronze beast that the three of them patted affectionately, the more awestruck and fascinated he became. These modern devices, the basilisks, demi cannons and culverins were the King’s means to smite and lay waste his foes. If, however, they were his arms, then the blood and sinews that powered these weapons was the vital black powder, the success of the alchemists craft, the ‘Fue d’Artifice’ or “made fire’. It was the ability to balance the conflicting art, craft, alchemy, and perhaps magic that made these two men so valuable to the King’s service. For when carefully measured and weighed, these charges, if used with skill, would propel missiles that could destroy the greatest walls or alter the fate of nations in battle. Without this blend of skill and the harnessed wrath of the black powder, these great weapons of destruction were just mute, impotent lumps of bronze and iron.
As an example of their impact on the turn of Lady Fortuna’s wheel, Henryk recounted one famous incident, at the battle of Ravenna over twenty years ago between the Spaniards and the Lombard League. A single shot from a culverin ploughed into the Spanish line killing thirty men and wounding many more. The horror and shock of the missile’s devastation caused the Spanish companies of horse to precipitously charge in desperation, losing the battle. Ned could understand why the common soldiers feared and venerated their Gonnes. It was like have a savage demon on a loose tether. If the other side had one so must you. Possession was essential no matter the risks or expense.
The older of the two brothers recounted a story regarding the perils involved in the Gonne’s use. King James II of Scotland was besieging the English held castle of Roxburgh when the barrel of his great siege Gonne exploded, killing him. Ned had looked doubtfully at the culverin he was leaning on until Henryk assured him that the incident had happened years ago and cannon rarely exploded like that now. That had set Ned’s fears at ease. Then Hubrecht gave a low chuckle and added that bronze was still preferred over iron since it tended to bulge before exploding, but…the Doutch Gonner had concluded his reasoning with a sort of shrug and wave of hands in the universal gesture of the uncertainty of Lady Fortuna’s favour and Ned’s reassurance evaporated.
After those tales Ned could understand the recent rants from the friars screaming of the coming destruction. Blood and fire of the Apocalypse! Any city under siege from modern engines of war would witness their own dress rehearsal for St John the Evangelist’s prophetic words. It was no surprise that after the first roar of the Gonnes, most towns surrendered. Casting a more knowledgeable gaze over the iron and bronze instruments, the wonder was that in battle, men didn’t break and run at the first salvo. It must take a special kind of resolve to stand and watch the belching
gouts of smoke and flame as they lashed out towards their ranks.
All this was a fascinating insight into the latest arts of war but now they delved further into the arcane craft the black powder. It was then that Ned realised he was being drawn into a very select cadre and it was only the great respect that they held for Rob Black that allowed his presence at this open conversation regarding trade secrets. Despite his lack of experience in these practical matters, he felt that he followed the explanation reasonably well.
From what he gathered, the black powder that provided the motive force was made up of the most irregular components—sulphur, the beloved compound of alchemists, charcoal from burnt timber and the white crystals and residue of manure called saltpetre. When mixed in a certain manner and proportions this created the base black powder. This was then subjected to further processing to create three sorts of powders—Gross corne powder, fine corne powder and serpentine powder. The first was preferred for the large Gonnes due to its manner of conflagration, while the last was used in the smaller hand held harquebus and caliver which were now in common use by soldiers across the channel.
Hubrecht laboured the fact that although it was possible to use the finest powder in the Great Gonnes, the results could be catastrophic if the proportional weights were incorrect. Common practice had it that the charge of powder was half that of the total weight of the shot. However that, as Ned was told, also depended on the quality of the powder and the grain size, since two pounds of coarser grain could equal four or six pounds of the finer powder in force.
But even after this judicious balancing there were more difficulties. The manner of storage and age could dramatically affect the powder’s performance. It had a tendency to spoil due to damp. Henryk reckoned the best way to check was to put your hand in the barrel and test how dry it felt. If it failed that test then it was put aside for reprocessing. It was this part of the explanation that Ned gained his most useful insight into the breadth of Sir Welkin’s changes. Until the last month the two Doutch Gonne artificers had supervised the sorting and storage of the powder. That area of responsibility had been given to two servants of the new Master of the Ordinance—John Edwards and Clem Watkins. As Ned knew, the granting of appointments was within the expected perks of the position. The question was, what would Sir Welkin, even as greedy as he appeared, gain from putting on two more men? His remuneration couldn’t have been much of a return on the inconvenience. Often it was considered appropriate to accept a modest gift from the current staff to maintain their positions.
The Queen's Oranges Page 9
