“Well, Lord Bedwell, give a command and we’ll see if it is obeyed.” It was a simple and reasoned reply, so much so that Albrecht took one look at the two of them and shot out the open doorway as fast as he could.
Ned opened his mouth to frame a command, his second foot following the first in edging over the chasm. This was going to prove difficult. Her Hanse agent had just precipitously fled so that wasn’t an option, and although Ned apparently owned the vessel he now stood on, none knew it and the crew seemed to accept their orders from Mistress Margaret Black. Ned was finding himself suddenly short of followers. There were Gryne’s men—however half here were paid by Mistress Black and in any clash of wills could not be counted on. After all they owned fealty to Captaine Gryne and he had high regard for Dr Caerleon who in the twisted pattern of the city felt he still owed a debt of blood to the Blacks. Of course he could always call upon his friend Rob, or then once the rarefied pinnacle of command had cleared his head, perhaps not. Ned found himself plummeting down the trap of his own making. It would be prudent not to put his friend to the test of opposing his younger sister. The heights of command suddenly felt very exposed and chilly.
Ned knew defeat when he saw it and one thing he had learned at the Inns was the art of evasion. So he put on his most imperious stance and pointed to the disarray of papers. “Tell me what you’ve found!”
It was close—very, very close. He could see her eyes measuring him up for where the next blow was to land. He’d prefer if it was not the face. The last set of bruises had taken a week to fade. The hand slowly relaxed and Meg Black turned back to the table. It may have the appearance of a draw, but Ned had caught the distinct impression of a satisfied smile on her face. “Well, Lord Bedwell, Albrecht and I have gone through all the ship’s ledgers, both the official and secret ones, and we found nothing special or manifestly different from what we thought was being carried, so we’re no closer.”
Ned would’ve had to have been deaf not to hear the sneering start to her reply. Well his dignity could ignore that. The bills of lading were another matter. He took the few paces to the scattering of documents and stooped to pick some up, giving each a brief review as he sorted through them. Not that he could decipher much. Without an intricate knowledge of the merchant’s code, it might say ‘one gross barrels of stock fish and twenty ells of Flemish cloth’, but considering the true cargo it could, and probably did mean anything.
Without even turning his head he knew that Meg Black would be watching him with that every so satisfied smirk. Secretly he gave an inward stoic sigh. Such slights must be endured for the greater good. As camouflage Ned picked up a single sheet and perused its cramped script.
This situation was sliding from disaster into catastrophe. It seemed to Ned that Master Albrecht Hagan had once more chosen not to inform Meg as to the fullest nature of the cargo. Whereas some trade secrets are best kept close, the dire progress of this affair should have prompted a prudent merchant to confide a lot more than this obscure pile of scratchings. So why not? Where lay the honour of merchants and smuggling?
Now as in any business transaction it all came down to a matter of trust, who did you trust and with what? Meg trusted Albrecht and Joachim with the consignment of heretical works so that was fine. The shipmaster knew and trusted, to a degree, his crew for their petty customs evasions. However the real question in all this was who had Joachim trusted for the weapons and powder? For it certainly wasn’t Mistress Black. Reality dictated that such a large quantity of contraband couldn’t have been gathered by the shipmaster and his nephew alone. That activity required a detailed knowledge of the city and it’s customs, as well as the time, space and resources to cultivate the ‘arrangement’.
Of course it always came back to gold and silver in the end. Rob’s rough estimate was that the value of his discovered contraband was around five hundred pounds, and if the consignment was to go to the Irish then the profit would be three times that.
It seemed most perverse that the word of God was only worth a fifth of the value of the weapons of war. Truly they lived in evil times. So to Ned’s suspicious purview there must have been a partner, and it was either that person or the supplier who broke the trust of the deal. The result of that dereliction was of course—murder.
Ned stood there lost in a fog of suspicion as Meg Black tickled off the items of cargo and contraband. Through the swirling mist one figure kept on popping into dim view. For once Ned was circumspect enough not to blurt it out. He’d want a lot more information before he challenged the favoured agent and friend of the Black clan. To his thinking, it was definitely past time for a long conversation with the Hanse merchant and that thought led to another question. “Meg, do you have a new shipmaster yet?”
“No. Albrecht is trying to engage one off another Hanse vessel in port, but if that falls through he has offered to do it himself.”
Ned held very still, apparently reviewing a list of cutler’s goods. The Hanse merchant just shot up to the top of the list of suspects. So much for friendship. He’d put a hundred angels on Albrecht being unable to find a replacement shipmaster. After all someone had to finish the deal with the contraband and Master Hagan was the one man left who could possibly have sufficient knowledge.
Ned suddenly felt very jittery. How long before the Hanse merchant found out about the results of Rob’s search? Due to the repair work a look in the hold was impossible, and from what he remembered, Albrecht had been back at the Steelyard all today. Damn, he couldn’t sort this complication out with her here. Meg Black was suspicious enough already. Then his daemon conveniently reminded him of his latest problem. Oh yes, the perfect distraction. “Ahh Meg, to add to our burdens, we’ve just been given another.”
All that received was the briefest flicker of an inquisitive eyebrow. It appeared the discussion over leadership was still held against him. Ned frowned and cleared his throat in the accusative silence. “Umm. I ran into an old acquaintance of ours, Skelton.”
Meg gasped and dropped her pile of papers and ledgers. It was secretly satisfying to see her response.
Ned felt a brief measure of satisfaction. “Master Skelton requests that we find another friend from last year, Don Juan Sebastian de Alva.”
Now that revelation really got her interest. Mistress Black paled at the news and stammered out a question. “How…why?”
Ahh, a much better reaction. Though he did note that the blanched look of her cheeks nicely set off the colour of her eyes. Hmm, very attractively. “If we find Don Juan Sebastian before Sunday then Skelton’s good lord will shield us from the Lord Chancellor.”
Margaret Black recovered sufficient composure to look extremely sceptical regarding the offer. “Ned, you accepted?”
Her question held more than a hint of incredulity in the tone, much more than Ned thought appropriate. “Do I look like that much of a village idiot?”
From her considering glower, that was exactly what she thought. Another implied insult like that and he’d almost be tempted to leave the dratted Margaret Black to her well deserved fate. “I didn’t have much choice. Skelton had dozen men at his back and at least for this week Norfolk rules the Privy Council, so it may please him to frustrate More.”
“And how do you think the Spaniard will be magicked forth when for the last six months Gryne hasn’t found him?”
Ned bridled at the overlay of sneer and casually threw out his answer as if it were a coin to beggar. “Ahh yes, but I have.”
“What! I don’t believe you, Red Ned Bedwell. If that had happened, you’d be crowing from the tower of St Paul’s and plotting your revenge.”
That slur was completely undeserved. Ned was no one’s fool. He’d have had the haughty foreign weasel beaten to a pulp first before celebrating. “Well Mistress, better than thou, Black, if you hadn’t been so keen on your venison pies and chat at Richmond Palace, then I might have told you I’d seen him there!”
Ned’s angel of conscience made a quiver
ing complaint at this gross distortion of the facts, to no avail, for then the discussion of differences evolved into a full throated argument as both stood toe to toe, loud in their conviction.
It would have been a brave man who interrupted and as it happened it was. Gruesome Roger simply slammed the door open, startling the storm within to a sudden and precipitous halt. Ned probably wouldn’t admit it, but he for one was glad of the interruption. The situation in the shipmaster’s cabin was becoming a touch dangerous. Meg Black had already smashed a few items, believing that the use of missiles added weight to her views. The only piece left was a hooked pole wedged in the corner and he preferred not having to dodge any wielded implements, as a retreat from the room could be too easily be read as signifying his defeat and disgrace.
***
Chapter 20. Powder, Problems and Southwark, Evening to Night, 8th June
Ned spent the next half an hour trying to maintain a dignified calm as Gruesome Roger presented his report. The Black retainer had succeeded in his mission to track down and contact the illicit powder merchant of Southwark. The fellow had a building on the river by the stream next to Morgan’s Lane on the eastern edge of the Liberties. The edgy tension from the argument in the cabin lingered and had frequently led Roger to look questioningly towards his mistress at every pause, an action that inched Ned’s temper towards the breaking point. He held it by the merest fingernail as he gave a curt reminder that the missing Ben Robinson was his responsibility, while Mistress Black was only assisting her brother and him as duty commanded. Roger’s lip curled in that familiar Bedwell–directed sneer, while his mistress gave forth one of her disdainful snorts. Which for the sake of cooperation Ned pretended not to hear.
At the conclusion, Ned had stood his ground and been very emphatic on the allocation of tasks. Rob was to be in charge of the ‘Orange Watch’, as the guard over the Stafford women was dubbed. Meg had once more bristled at his claim of leadership and protested that the post was hers. Ned felt he’d surpassed himself in restraint and decorum by merely mentioning that she was still required to act the merchant’s heiress in this deception. The plain fact was not taken as well as it could have been. Mistress ‘I’ll do what I want’ Black made an attempt to foist her duty on to Emma. This was until Ned, completely without smirking, pointed out that the good alewife was already engaged in another task, as well as assisting Rob.
As a consequence of the still simmering dispute, it took over an hour to organise their departure. To Ned’s disappointment and frustration, Albrecht was left in command of the vessel. There was no choice. Rob had to leave to meet up with Emma over at Milford Lane, where their survival depended on charting the course of the oranges. If Albrecht was indeed implicated, then they had just given him a two or so hour window to hide whatever he wanted. Ned had a very quiet word with Tam Bourke to keep a close eye on the Hanse and make sure he was never alone, but apart from that, all he could do was pray that providence still favoured them.
After all the chaos and angst, the crossing to Southwark went smoothly once they secured three large cargo wherries, far more than they needed but it was necessary to look like they meant to purchase the powder.
According to Gruesome Roger, the sometime powder merchant was in a large warehouse on the waterfront, two buildings west of the stream by Morgan’s Lane. Roger had left one of Gryne’s men at the dock as look out, while he’d spread the rest of the mercenaries around the cluster of buildings. According to Meg’s retainer, Gryne had put twenty more men at their service, easily summoned by a horn blast. Ned sincerely hoped it would be enough.
They strode into the warehouse in all the strutting style of the merchant lords of the city. Meg Black had temporarily put aside their rancorous dispute to once more play the imperious heiress. His daemon wryly remarked that it was a part she did very well. One glance at the proud tilt of her nose and you’d never know she ground her own poultices and mucked out the workroom. There had been a brief but spirited debate over improving her appearance with more jewellery and her very best French hood, but Ned had pushed that aside with the valid claim of lack of time. It had almost earned him that avoided clout from the earlier discussion.
Now as he played second retainer to Gruesome Roger’s lead, Ned was beginning to have a few misgivings regarding the plan. For one thing, the arrangement was up to ‘Hawks’ and while he’d protect his mistress to his last breath, he had scant regard for Ned. The events of the Fleete Ditch bridge and the rescue of the grain vessels had proved that. So they were maybe backed by a dozen of the most fearsome ruffians in Southwark but his daemon whispered that wasn’t enough.
The building was similar to others along the riverside, built on heavy stone footings, probably from another older structure. The different patterns of use had grafted on a brick wall here and split planks on the south side. The interior space was packed with sacks and barrels as well as the occasional pile of wicker baskets. The lighting was poor since the only source was a couple of high windows that allowed a reluctant trickle of the evening light to spill across the jumbled heaps. A lop eared guard had let them in, giving a vague wave towards the rear. Ned was surprised. He would have thought anyone would be leery of allowing several armed men into a warehouse. They weaved between the tottering piles and baskets in single file towards a dim pool of light at the back.
“Master Hawkins!” It was a loud booming welcome and came from a fellow leaning against an ominously creaking stack of woven containers. “Tis good to see you again, and welcome to your esteemed mistress!”
Their host was a large man, well large at least in circumference, if not actually tall. He looked more like a barrel on legs and from his dress, believed in keeping up with the latest fashion. That much silk velvet on one man would see a draper feasted and drunk for a week. He gave an attempt at a courtly bow as Meg approached, though Ned felt any further effort could see the fellow topple over.
Mistress Black gave the slightest nod in response to the greeting, maintaining an arrogant disdain. “You’re Somersby, the victualler, as referred to us by Master Lyttlefield?”
By the saints she was good! The question fair dripped all the embedded affectations of the highest families of London. An automatic reaction had the victualler trying for a deeper bow. To Ned it seemed that if Master Somersby could, he’d even have gone down on his knees to kiss the fringe of her dress. Meg, in turn, withheld the favour of her hand and regarded the victualler as one would a cockroach, which only drove him on to further attempts at obeisance. Ned found that interesting. Meg Black’s disdain never had that effect on him—more like he wanted to spank her insolence.
“Master Lyttlefield said that you would be of assistance with supplies, though I find it doubtful, considering this pile of trash.” At that her fingers gave a dismissive flick towards the shadowed contents of the warehouse before she pinned the merchant with a contemptuous frown. “I hope for your sake he was not mistaken?”
Ned was impressed at her play, an excellent move mixing sneering request with implied threat, though the reaction was not quite what he’d anticipated. Master Somersby the victualler, quivered almost joyfully at the unsubtle menace of Meg Black’s words. Ned dreaded to think how pleased the fellow might be if she’d cuffed him for insolence. Southwark definitely did have some strange inhabitants.
The rotund victualler continued his unabated fawning and replied in a wheedling falsetto. “Mistress Black, on my honour, I have all that you could ever require!”
Ned frowned at the not so shaded tones in Master Somersby reply. He may have been mistaken but it almost sounded like…like an offer?
The victualler gave a wave and two lackeys, lurking in the background, stepped forward and pulled back a canvas sheet revealing a collection of barrels. Even in the limited light Ned could see the impress of the King’s mark along side that of the Tower on the sycamore stave. As Rob had pointed out, each barrel was bound by corded willow withy and hazel hoops rather than metal, to stop the
chance of a stray spark. They were of the right size, as well, to hold the statute one hundred pounds. To Ned it looked a good start and about the right number, at least fifty if not a few more. Meg slowly paced along the front row of barrels, giving each a cool regard. Master Somersby shuffled along behind, spouting a blend of grovelling comments about the superlative quality of his goods and his honoured guest.
Mistress Black abruptly stopped and imperiously pointed to one barrel. “Open it!”
Somersby waved his two minions forward again and they wrestled the barrel out from its companions, then cautiously tapped loose the head. Ned was very relieved to see them using wooden hammers and wedges. The last event he wanted to witness was some fool slamming away with metal tools around the dangerous powder. Once broached, Ned cautiously stepped over after removing his sword belt and the two pistols, leaving them with one of their retinue. Rob had been very specific about precautions around powder.
Ned dipped his hand into the open barrel and felt the smooth grains slide past his skin. At the feast the other night, Rob Black had discussed the various attributes of quality powder, how dry it should feel, the smoothness of the grain and the evenness of the size. Well this seemed to pass the test, no signs of moisture or dampness that so frequently spoilt the mixture. He could see that their host was smiling happily as the trial continued. Well that was all to the good. Ned picked out a pinch of powder and put it in his mouth. Yes Rob had been an excellent teacher, definitely the taste of brimstone and saltpetre.
Then for the final test Ned rolled up his shirt sleeve and dove his hand deep into the bottom quarter of the barrel. It may have looked undignified but his friend had assured him that it was essential. Oh well another good shirt probably ruined. He felt around and pulled up a good hand full.
The Queen's Oranges Page 23
