The pistol roared, and the planking immediately next to the merchant’s ear shattered, showering the Hanse merchant’s face with splinters and tearing off half one earlobe. Ned exchanged pistols with Tam and once more took aim.
Albrecht had dropped the cradled chest to the floor with a crash and slapped a hand over the flow of blood. His eyes were very wide, tracking the wavering tip of the primed pistol. His face was blanched white, highlighting the smatter of ragged red splinters. He was trying to speak but only a low stuttered moan came out.
“Nicely balanced, as I said.” Satisfied with his practice, Ned aimed and fired again. They were beautiful examples of the gunsmith’s craft and Augsburg had the highest reputation for quality in modern armaments. This pair would have been proofed at five paces to punch through Almain Rivet armour, and only the best quality springs were used, each double hardened and tempered, whatever that meant, though Rob had sounded impressed when he’d examined them. The only draw back was that sometimes the pan cover didn’t slide out of the way correctly or some burnt powder clogged the priming vent, and as in this case the pistol misfired. No matter—it still had the desired effect. Albrecht screamed and huddled closer to the wall.
Ned gave a curse that had Tam raise an eyebrow in surprise, though he still tapped him on the shoulder and passed him the next reloaded pistol. Ned had to pause to drag in a deep breathe. He mustn’t let rage get the better of him. It was just as well that last shot had misfired. A dead Albrecht was of no use to him. In response his daemon of darkness made a very nasty suggestion. Quickly Ned checked the priming, took a step closer to the terrified Hanse trader and shoved the barrel into the fellow’s cod piece
“So Albrecht you’ve seen how well these beauties fire. Impressive isn’t it? Answer my questions truthfully and you save your manhood, lie and you’ll be pissing without a pizzle!”
“That’s if’n he lives. Saw a Frenchie once lost ‘is stones and pizzle ta a harquebus ball. Took a week fo’ ‘im ta die. Black rot got ’im. Screamed he did ever’ day.” That cheery comment came from a grinning Tam who was happily recharging the second pistol, though he did pause for a second to give his own codpiece a friendly pat.
Well, thought Ned, grimly amused, Captaine Gryne’s men really were a fount of worldly knowledge. However the import of the mercenary’s tale got through the wall of shock and fear, and made it worse. Albrecht was sobbing and whimpering for mercy. “A few simple questions, Albrecht, my partner. The powder and weaponry—who’d you get them off?”
“Nein, nein… I can’t. Zey’ll ave me un ze Tower…an hung before the week’z out!” That came out as series of panting gasps. Albrecht was having trouble balancing his priorities, one hand clapped over his shredded ear while the other tried to push his body away from the probing muzzle.
For Ned the initial response was intriguing. This was the second time he had heard the threat of the Tower used to keep contraband traders in line. That hinted at someone with high court connections. Well only one way to find out.
Ned squeezed the trigger. The pistol kicked back in his hand with a satisfying jerk. Albrecht gave the highest pitched screech that was possible, and forgetting his ear, grabbed his smoking cod piece with both hands. Ned had tilted the pistol at the last instant while staring into the merchant’s eye. The ball punched into the timber planking a bare fraction of an inch from the base of the codpiece, but the flash of discharged burning powder poured over the padded apparel setting parts of it alight. The speeding incandescent grains should leave quite an impression on sensitive organs
Tam Bourke winced in sympathy as he handed Ned the next reloaded weapon.
“That may be so, but only if you survive this morning. Talk!” For further emphasis Ned prodded the blackened cloth and once more stared the Hanse down.
Something in his eye broke the last reserve of the whimpering man and he screamed out. “Blackford! It waz Blackford. He sold me ze weapons!”
That was treason—got him! So many irregularities with the King’s stores seemed to track back to his office, including the missing Ben Robinson. “What about the powder, Albrecht?”
“That was Joachim’s share. Mein Gott, I zwear upon my soul! He said a couple of schurke men, along ze river had the trade sewn up! Pleaze, it wasn’t me! I…ahh, mein Gott, mein Gott!”
That could have been the truth. Albrecht hadn’t panicked about the fire and that would have been expected if he knew about the twenty odd barrels and they were much better hidden than the weapons.
“What about Joachim, your friend?” With this question he gave Albrecht a particularly savage prod.
“I don’t know who killed him, mein Gott. Pleaze! Maybe der ones from der docks zey were to deliver der powder! Ask them!” Possibly one more fragment of truth, according to Meg the death of Joachim and Pieter had been as much a shock to Albrecht as her.
“What of the impounding?”
The Hanse started to cry in sobbing gasps. Great tears dribbled down into his grey salted beard. “I had no choice. Zey forced me to it! Mein Gott forgive me!”
The merchant was too distraught from pain and guilt to notice the steel edge to Ned’s gaze or the tension of his hand. Tam wasn’t. He knocked Ned’s arm as he squeezed the trigger, so that instead of blowing off Albrecht’s nearest and dearest, the ball ploughed through the meat of his outer thigh before lodging in the ship’s timbers.
“You miserable, befouling, villainous, little rat! Even the Moors wouldn’t stoop to such treachery. Meg held you as close as family and you repay that love and regard with black hearted deceit!” Ned pointed the pistol again and pulled the trigger. The wheel spun and sparked, and Albrecht screamed fit to wake the dead, but nothing else happened. The pistol had been discharged, and his in rage Ned had forgotten.
Tam gently levered the spent weapon from his hand. “Nay lad, don’t do it”
“What! Why not?”
“Well fo’ one, he ain’t answered yet.”
That rational response from Tam grounded Ned, and brought him back to the needs of the hour. He lent forward, one hand planted each side of the Hanse merchants head, and in voice cold and chilling hissed his question. “Who wanted this Albrecht?”
If the merchant had been able, he’d have clawed his way through the deck to get away. His shoulders burrowed into the unyielding timber. “It vaz Belsom! For der Lord Chancellor! It vaz that or der Lollard tower like Monmouth! Pleaze Miester Bedvell, in Gottes name I’m nicht strong like them. I vaz afraid!”
Ned nodded as his teeth ground together. Yes, fear explained many desperate and cowardly acts. “Why Meg Black?”
“They vanted zum’one tied to die Lady!”
Ah yes, the Boleyn connection. Ned thought that might be part of it. The battles in the Privy Council and the annulment dispute, he should have seen the links earlier. “And what were you to get out of it?”
The well seemed to run dry. The Hanse clenched his trembling lips and looked away. A merciful man would have been content, but Ned wanted to know Albrecht’s thirty pieces of silver. Anyway mercy had left a long time ago. “Both pistols please Tam.”
At this suggestion the flow renewed in abundance. “Der Ruyter! Belsom and Welkin promised me der Ruyter and der Steelyards would be left alone!”
How typical for a merchant. Slighted love or revenge at least aimed towards noble sentiments, but no, all this was just for a bit more gold. He wondered what sort of guarantees Albrecht had accepted, if any. The juiciest part was the involvement of his two most favourite royal officials and working together! That was worthwhile news. But as for the powder, that was another matter.
“Why the weapons?”
“Zey forced me to go partners in ze cargo, said it vas part of ze arrangement! I had nien choice!”
That may be so, but why hide the weapons so poorly? “When?”
“Der Ruyter vaz to be taken at Limehouse when it sailed!”
That was a convenient site at one of the customs house
s, and close to the city. Why all this trickery was another question. Ned dismissed that speculation—it was irrelevant. In the meantime, there were other tasks. “Albrecht, my friend, I must thank you for your assistance. I fear that our pleasant talk is concluded. However Tam here will continue to offer you the ship’s hospitality.”
Ned watched dispassionately as the weeping German was gagged, bound, shrouded in the sheet of canvas and then dragged off to some noisome corner of the hold. At the conclusion of this affair it would best for Albrecht’s health if he took a long sea journey, with a couple of boon companions to look to his needs. Ned’s daemon came up with a tempting suggestion. Hmm, perhaps Gruesome Roger and Tam felt like a change for a while.
***
Chapter 23. Oranges o’ Oranges! To Milford Lane, Morning, 9th June
Ned was sitting on the chair in the Shipmaster’s cabin, hands clasped tightly as his arms leant on the trestle table, his sight fixed in a locked stare at the specks of dust that swirled in a shaft of warm summer light. A priest may have said he was praying for guidance, while a philosopher would have stated he was seeking understanding by observing a facet of God’s infinite creation, but one of Gryne’s mercenaries standing guard on the deck, would reckon the lad was bored to distraction. The interesting thing about such reflections was that they were all correct, while at the same time being completely wrong.
The Terce bells had sounded not long ago and Ned was a drift upon the sea of conflict. He may have looked calm and reposed, but that was a matter of stubborn will. He’d prefer to smash all the furniture in the room and scream his frustration. Since the interview with Albrecht, he was no longer floundering around. chasing vague shadows that tantalisingly hinted at both promise and threat. Now he knew that the cats–paw, Belsom, was mired in this conspiracy to entrap Meg Black, right up to the tip of his gaudily plumed helm, while the Master of the King’s Ordinance, Blackford, had hit upon yet another clever scheme to enrich himself at his Majesty’s expense. Exactly who had slain the shipmaster and his nephew was still a mystery, but Ned was sure it was tangled up with Belsom’s plans, though whether it was a prearranged part of the plot looked unlikely. So far all of them were running to catch up with the flow of events.
Right now Ned really wanted to deal with those two knights in the manner which they deserved. To his pent up frustration he knew he couldn’t. Due to their positions they were untouchable unless Ned could prevail upon his lord, Thomas Cromwell, or the Duke of Norfolk. In short, he’d a better chance of marrying the Queen of the Faeries. For one thing, his good lord seemed to be playing some double game on the Privy Council, and as for Norfolk, the price of his support was very clear. Find and deliver Don Juan Sebastian, though whether the de facto head of the Privy Council would live up to his side of any bargain was a drunkard’s chance.
So now Ned was in the ridiculous position of having just enough of the knowledge to solve two of his problems but none of the authority to do so. Possibly he could gain that if he sorted out the final two tasks he’d been charged with. So Ned sat there wrestling with the torments of decision, and knowing that once he got up and walked out of the room, whatever pattern he had decided to follow, would be locked in place for good or ill. The longer he sat, the longer he put off the inevitable, and somehow it was strangely soothing to be, for a time, adrift.
A loud rap on the door put flight to his distractions. Ned pulled himself out of his lassitude. Damn, it was almost pleasant in a mind dulling way. One of Emma’s diminutive messengers had arrived, a small, brown haired girl in a dirty dress, clutching a scrap of parchment. Ned gave her a penny and read the missive. His efforts at evasion were at an end. The Oranges had begun to move.
Despite his prevarication, he’d actually prepared for this. He grabbed Ouze and a couple of Gryne’s lads, and leapt straight into a wherry that had been retained since dawn at a fairly stiff price. So it transpired that Rob Black was left in command of the vessel. Ned had a moment’s apprehension, but commonsense reminded him that any man who could manage a furnace gang should have no troubles with this. Anyway he had the final ‘modifications’ to supervise.
Ned took a moment to straighten his doublet and adopt a more dignified pose as he entered the common room of the Red Boar tavern. Once ashore at Milford Lane, Emma’s messenger had lead them on a weaving route through the alleys that emptied onto the main road of Temple Bar. For someone with such short legs, the little lass certainly moved fast and soon had them all gasping for breath as the tavern came in sight. So far no one had tried to kill him today, so it was an improvement.
Once inside, he found Emma was seated at a large table by the fireplace holding court. Ned suspected there must be some sort of secret fraternity of Innkeepers, that or Milliken Tover the taverner, was yet another relation to the widening pool of Black kin. It had to be some arcane reason that the Orange Watch had been allowed to usurp the place, for none of what could be termed the usual clientele were visible as he walked in. His daemon suggested a disturbing answer. Perhaps they too had been recruited. Unfortunately part of his surmise had been correct. It was a very diverse collection gathered in the tavern, from children in worn and dirty clothes to men who held the dubious appellation of ‘common beggars’, not Tover’s usual kind of customers at all. Ned blanched at the mounting cost of the Orange minions while his daemon made a more pertinent remark—the Red Boar was usually Adeline’s favoured abode. Oh by the saints, he hoped that his ‘friend’ had sensed the coming storm and sort other refuge. The thought of Adeline and Meg Black engaging in idle conversation sent chills well and truly up his spine.
Pushing past the motley crew and his other concerns, Ned took a proffered seat next to Emma and accepted a large leather tankard of ale that magically appeared. Whatever the leverage the girls had used, at least he was now accorded some respect and a very good ale. Perhaps the familiar tang of Bee Skep double? Hmm, just how many taverns did Emma supply?
“Any news?” he asked after a decent draught.
Emma gave a quirky smile and airily waved a hand. “Margaret sent word she captured another two baskets to add to the collection.”
Ned looked over at the row of trophies ranged along the wall. It was most impressive. No wonder Emma had seemed to preen. At a quick count, with Meg’s latest that took the total to twenty. “Have any got through?”
Emma shook her head and hauled one of the baskets onto the table. “No, not one, or any messengers. I thought I’d wait until you got here. Meg said you’d turn up sometime soon. Care to open some oranges on someone else’s table?”
Ned looked at the proffered basket and the wickedly smiling face of Emma. Yes, there was no doubt she was a cousin to Meg Black. He politely waved off the task to the assembly of children. This was his next to last decent doublet and shirt. The prospect of ruining them to satisfy a sense of mischief didn’t appeal.
As expected, the carnage was devastating. Most of the room was awash with the spicy aroma of dismembered oranges, with the pulpy remains strewn across the tables. The children fell onto their quarry and assigned task with an enthusiasm and gusto that was truly a marvel to behold. Ned had gathered up the fruits of their labours as carefully as he could, but despite his best efforts, his dark blue doublet still got splattered. Damn, more cleaning expenses! As anticipated, twenty more waxed cylinders emerged from the carcases. Ned actually had the assistance of Emma for breaking them open, which he had to admit made the process slightly less messy and considerably faster.
He unrolled the pieces of parchment and compared them. All still contained the same message as yesterday’s cylinder, bidding the recipients to mayhem and affray. While the hand of the script varied, in each it was the same arrangement of highlighted letters.
Emma peered at the results of their work. “Anything new?”
Ned frowned in concentration. He wished there was, almost desperately. Now he’d arrived, the situation seemed so well organised. It appeared a foolish act to have raced over
so precipitously. “No, they’re the same as the first message. I don’t suppose you know where these were going?”
“I was told that we had to stop the oranges. Now Red Ned Bedwell, are you saying that you may have been wrong?”
Ned eyed the mistress of the Bee Skep warily. She had definitely spent too much time with her cousin, unless sly insinuating questioning was a family trait. “No, no. Still, wouldn’t it have been handy to find out where they were heading?”
That was a stiffer response than he had intended, not that it made any impression on a grinning Emma. Somehow he gained the impression that these girls had already worked out the flaws in his plan. It was true that all the oranges must be stopped from reaching their appointed recipients. But knowledge of fellow ‘Orange’ conspirators might have aided their position with Norfolk or Cromwell.
The arrival of another diminutive messenger halted further discussion. The flow of oranges had stopped. According to Meg’s scribbled note, the last two servants had tried a brief sortie towards Temple Bar, then at the first sight of trouble they’d run back to the Bishop of Bath’s Inn. Good news, one route had been dammed. Now Ned had to sort through the second problem. Sooner or later the Stafford women would have twigged to the loss of the oranges, and the assaulted servants. So what would they do? After the first ten or so seized baskets, they may have had an apprehension that the King’s men had tripped over their plots. But the use of the children, beggars and the non appearance of Royal officials armed with warrants and soldiers would have convinced them that it was the mischievous actions of a rival faction.
So what now? If not servants, what next? They must have some degree of influence amongst the powers of the city, otherwise the friars, wouldn’t have had such an easy time. Ned tried to put himself in their position. If he were organising this, what would he do? Surely he could out think a couple of women aided only by a handful of mad eyed friars and a Spanish popinjay?
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