The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  He heard booming laughter as Peacock feather rejoined his friend and they continued their passage along the river. Ned had to skulk at a further distance and frequently ducked behind stalls and carts for cover as they strolled along and called in at Morris Key and Galley Key. Once more Peacock feather was the one who entered, while his short companion made a pretence at keeping watch, while actually eyeing off the passing punks. The girls were thicker than fleas down here. You’d think it was the Liberties. Still they made a fine parade with pulled down bodices and scarlet ribbons. The short one was particularly impressed with a statuesque girl with long blonde flowing tresses and from what Ned could glimpse from his cover, a cleavage a man would die for.

  The shorter one was pressing for an assignation, that or bargaining for a lower price. His efforts met with a teasing response from the blonde punk. From Ned’s view, this was no chance meeting, more the expected banter of a regular patron. This continued with much pleading from the shorter artisan, even after Peacock feather returned. There may have been an exchange of coin from the clasp of hands, but finally the two men pulled away, though the short one kept turning back and blowing kisses. Ned toyed with the thought of continuing his pursuit, but a more provocative idea surfaced.

  With hand jauntily resting on his hilt, Ned strutted along the riverside into the circling patrol of the punks. Not surprisingly he received many compliments and suggestions on how he could more productively spend his afternoon. With a kind smile he waved them off until he came to the blonde. Up close he could plainly see why the short one was so keen. Her straw blonde tresses cascaded down to her shapely waist, and then you had the so admired cleavage, a pair of orbs, creamy white skin uplifted by the tight bodice.

  On closer acquaintance Ned found his breath suddenly very constricted as he gave short bow and a flutter of his cap. “Mistress, I would beg for your indulgence.”

  Damn, that came out more like a nervous squeak than the casual arrogance he’d wanted. Ned stretched back up and found himself regarded by the lightest blue eyes he’d ever seen, framed by eyebrows so pale they were almost translucent. By the saints, his daemon whistled with appreciation, the punk was enough to give a man a serious and permanent cramp of the cods.

  “What would y’ want lord? Thou’ I’ll nay do the kind of feats they ‘ave at that cesspool the Biddle, nor will I do’s it against the wall. I’s a proper lass an’ expects proper respect.”

  That was the second time in recent memory the reputation of the Biddle had been brought up as a stew of known depravity. It said something that even the common punks refused to have any truck with it or it’s reputed practices. Ned was almost intrigued enough to visit, just for curiosity sake of course. Well, almost… “No mistress. I but seek the pleasure of your company to worship at your feet, a respectful devotee of the beautiful goddess, Aphrodite.”

  That induced a warily pleasant smile and a light giggle. “Are y’ one o’ ‘em poets o’ the court. I’d a gentleman like that afore. ‘e was a strange fish, but ‘e did pay well. Can y’ m’ lord?”

  Ned dug into his lightened purse and pulled out two twinkling golden angels. “These as a token of my good will and humble respect. Four more if you return with me to my vessel.”

  This didn’t produce the result that Ned was expecting at all. Her long fingers flew to her throat and the blonde punk took a step back, fear clearly written upon her face. Noticing her distress the other punks closed in protectively. A couple pulled out hidden blades and faced him.

  “Behind me Lizzie!”

  “Watch ‘im girls!”

  “Y’ll nay sell our Lizzie to the Blackamores and Heathen Turks! Y’ miserable pizzle worm!”

  What was going on? Ned was for a moment puzzled until one of the shouted threats percolated through his confusion. Turks and Blackamores? Oh no, surely not, that was just market gossip! Every one heard the rumours around Southwark, that some black hearted fiends were snatching girls from the riverside and, according to street rumour, were selling them to the Turks and Musselmen of Africa. But till now he’d dismissed it, as well, just idle tavern tales, the sort meant to elicit a thrill of fear and a warning to girls of good family to stay away from their wilder kin who frequented the riverside ale houses.

  Rumour it may have been to him, but here on the river they clearly believed it. If that was so then he needed to pacify the fierce crew err his quarry fled. He lifted his hands clear of any weapon placatingly. “Sweet ladies, I assure you I’ve no such evil intentions.”

  “How can y’ prove it?”

  Well that was a good question. How did you prove your honesty in a corrupted world? “I give my name’s bond that any who accompany me will come to no harm, and furthermore will receive generous compensation, leaving when they so choose. I, Red Ned Bedwell, do swear this on my hope of salvation and in the name of all the blessed saints.”

  That seemed to calm the gaggle down a mite. One of the skirted crew stepped forward and gave him a glaring inspection. “e’s the look o’ Bethany’s swain. She said ‘e had a sweet tongue in ‘im and was as full o’ courtesies as a lord.”

  “You know Bethany of the Cardinal’s Cap? How goes she?” Ned was surprised. He’d thought that the girls of Southwark rarely mixed with their rivals across the river. Anyway it had been many months since he had sighed over the soft skin and sweet laugh of Bethany.

  “She’s a cousin.” This was the belligerent girl who stood protectively in front and had a very sharp blade held casually in her right hand. Now that he had a closer look, the girl was the same one that trading insults with the friar at Petty Wales the other day. “Found herself an old merchant who’s pledged fo’ marriage if’n she’ll be his alone.”

  Ned smiled and nodded. He’d always hoped the best for Bethany. She had a real heart inside that ample bosom, unlike a lot of punks and whores who’d gained a more bitter view of the weakness of men. Now there would be a lucky man who’d die with a contented smile and after she’d be a much sought after widow.

  “Give her my regards when next you see her. Till then I offer the hospitality of the Ruyter for the afternoon to any who wish to accompany Lizzie.” Well if he couldn’t get her alone, in company would have to do. His daemon naturally agreed.

  Bethany’s dagger–wielding cousin spoke up. It would seem that she was the leader as such. “It be fine fo’ some who don’t ‘ave t’ work, but ‘ows we goin t’ earn our bread?”

  Not just the leader, also their trading factor. Ned considered his shrinking purse. Oh well, the devil drove a hard bargain, they said. “Two shillings a piece plus food and drink as well as the chance for any of the men under my command at a fair price of your choosing.”

  That had them in a huddle as his terms were debated. This was going to be a very expensive talk. His daemon however was keen, citing how it would immeasurably raise the spirits of the guards and crew.

  It was a novel parade that made its way back to Smart’s Wharf, a riot of colour and singing and the flutter of skirts, and for the locals it was better than the Lord Mayor’s parade as well as a damn sight more attractive. Ned and his twenty escorts flounced past the riverside taverns causing a great deal of comment, and ribald speculation. Ned tried very hard to enjoy the brief span of popularity, for as his better angel tartly reminded him, within a day of so, a grossly exaggerated story would wend its way to the wide disapproving ears of Uncle Richard and so on to his friend Councillor Cromwell. That would be difficult if not nigh on impossible to explain away, as it was he liked the nickname Red Ned. It lent him a certain swagger and notoriety. However his angel primly noted, that by Sunday it’d be accompanied by the appellation of Whoremaster and Lecher, then lets see what shadow it cast. Surprisingly though, during the duration of the festive journey not a single monk or friar ranted their disapproval. After infesting the place thicker than fleas on a dog for the past two weeks, now not a one could be seen anywhere.

  His arrival at the moored vessel was even more rap
turous and both Gryne’s Men and the crew gave a rousing chorus of cheers as they welcomed their afternoon’s guests aboard. Ned placed Tam Bourke in charge of fulfilling the requests of the ladies. He’d worked as a whoremonger for Captaine Gryne and was used to keeping order, and hopefully, at least a modicum of decorum. The last thing Ned wanted out of this was the glorious reputation as being the lord of the city’s first floating stew. In the meantime he listened to the counsel of his daemon, and ignored the warnings of his angel. He had at least a day or so before a certain apothecaries apprentice heard of this jaunty festival and he’d take his chances. After all, Sunday was all too close for remorse.

  ***

  Chapter 25. A Gentleman’s Agreement, The Ruyter, Afternoon, 9th June

  Since Rob’s carpentry crew had finished for an hour or so, Ned had space to settle the punks in the forward repaired section of the hold. The crew had cleared that area, stacking the cargo in the middle and aft section almost to the low ceiling of the deck above. They’d preserved a small secluded island for the two coffins of Joachim and Pieter sitting on a pair of trestles by the re–hidden powder. Ned hoped their ghosts appreciated the party in the forward hold. It was said that sailors always liked a hefty bit of saucy humping, even reformists. And so they should—it was costing enough.

  A few orders and more vanishing coin acquired an adequate, but not an abundant supply of food and drink from the riverside tavern. Ned wasn’t going to lay on a feast. He’d no desire to be known as the man who reintroduced the Roman orgy to London, especially since his mostly innocent Christmas Revels had gained a certain notoriety amongst the Chancery clerks. Anyway, according to his more learned friends at the Inns of Court, larks tongues were horribly expensive and as for stuffed dormice, they were an acquired taste that it was best not indulge in.

  After their companions had been given sufficient assurances, Ned escorted Lizzie and her required chaperone, who was as he’d expected the dagger clutching cousin of Bethany, a lass named Mary from Peterborough. She’d relaxed enough to chat pleasantly during the journey, but was still extremely suspicious as indicated by her right hand resting close to her sheathed blade. Ned opened the door and ushered the two girls into the shipmaster’s cabin, only to find the room was already occupied.

  Two pairs of startled eyes swivelled his way. One set at least he recognised easily as Rob Black. The other however took a little while longer, and then Ned realised it was Sir Roderick Belsom. He looked so different without his armour and plumed helm. It was like viewing a shell–less snail, though now Ned had a moment to contemplate the change, his style of dress made More’s man look even more like a toad than before, and a puffed scarlet one at that. Hadn’t his tailor mentioned that the colour made his cheeks look like two bulging red sacks? Probably not if he still wished to be paid for his work.

  Back to the startled eyes. If Rob’s opened any wider, his eyebrows would stretch to his nape. Ned couldn’t have got a better reception if he grown an extra head. From Sir Toad it was more an equal mixing of hunger and lust, with not a little avarice as an overtone.

  Ned was pleasantly surprised at the reaction, though very curious as to his visitor. “Why Sir Roderick, how pleasant to see you again so soon.”

  The pursuivant continued to ogle the two girls who had stepped through the door. From the dresses, the ribbons, unbound hair and most definitely their prominent attributes, there could be little doubt as to their station or employment.

  Ned was feeling very mischievous. “Had you sent word, I could have arranged few extra for an afternoon’s entertainment. There are twenty more eager lasses in the hold. Take your pick.”

  Now his visitor most resembled his totem, mouth gaping wide as if ready for a feast of flies, but all that came out was a series of strangled gasps.

  “No? Well, your choice. Rob, if you would be so kind as to keep my friends entertained on the deck, I will see what else our esteemed guest requires.”

  Rob couldn’t have shot out of the door faster if he’d been assisted by a little of the gonne powder. Ned’s two attractive escorts gave brief shrugs and followed after their newest chaperone.

  Quickly closing the door behind them, Ned paced across the room and took up a position lounging on the empty bunk. His guest closed his mouth and worked it around a few of the usual phrases of greeting. Ned’s daemon snickered wickedly at Sir Belsom’s difficulty, suggesting that Sir Toad appeared disturbed either by the departed girls or the unexpected manner of Ned’s arrival.

  “Arghh, Master Bedwell. I, well...I mean…”

  Ned smiled with some show of concern, arose from his perch, and poured his guest a cup of ale from the leather jack on the table. “It’s all right Sir Roderick. I can get a few more whenever I feel the need.”

  Ned deliberately stoked the raging envy he saw in the pursuivants eyes. It could be that the fellow suffered a mutiny in those parts, perhaps brought on by an excess of choler or a lack of vitality. Or mayhap it was more serious. Had the Lord Chancellor’s pursuivant the Spanish pox? It was said to create fearfully painful eruptions that rotted a man from the inside, starting with his cods. The speculation, although vicariously enjoyable, was just idle mischief, though his guest was exhibiting signs of an overwrought nature since Ned’s arrival. Whatever could that mean? He hadn’t seen the Lord Chancellor’s man anywhere near his labouring soldiers over at Temple Bar or even a peep of the usual escort, either on the docks or leering by the tavern at his passing carnival.

  So a lad had to ask, why was Sir Frederick visiting so quietly, so discretely, so, well furtively? More’s pursuivant wasn’t one to shirk display or ostentation when given half a chance. Ned sat back on the bunk swinging one leg patiently while he waited for the knight to regain his composure. “I’m afraid, Sir Belsom, I have nothing new to report on the murders, though I do expect to have a number of suspects in custody by Sunday for the Lord Chancellor’s inspection.”

  Ned gave his blandest smile. There, let Sir Toad think on that. “If you’re after Mistress Black, I am afraid your journey was wasted. I believe she is probably at Greyfriars, doing something with herbs or potions, or whatever matters apothecaries concern themselves with.”

  A blatant lie but so what. Despite his best intentions, Ned couldn’t keep a dismissive sneer out of his voice. He’d had enough of dealing with Meg Black’s problems for the day.

  His unexpected guest however, seemed to rally with that news. Sir Roderick gave a barking cough that rumbled alarmingly and finally launched into more coherent speech. “Ahh it is not, umm, not the Black girl I came here to see, or any other matter about the murders.”

  At the mention of the gruesome deaths, Belsom’s lips twitched in clear distaste, and he briefly averted his gaze from the bunk that Ned now sprawled upon. “Ahh…instead I’m here to see you, Master Bedwell.”

  That was a surprise. Sir Toad was trying to be polite. He even managed a struggling attempt at a welcoming smile, though why Belsom should bother for an apprentice lawyer who’d tricked him was a mystery.

  “Well sir, I am as ever at your service.” With this Ned doffed his cap respectfully and continued to observe his visitor. The Lord Chancellor’s pursuivant was sweating profusely and made frequent dabs at his chin with a linen kerchief stowed in his sleeve. “Master Bedwell, this is a difficult situation. I must convey to you the deepest apologies of my lord. It would seem that in our zeal to serve the King’s Majesty, a grievous error has been made.”

  What, an apology from Sir Thomas More? That was as unlikely as sainthood for Cardinal Wolsey. Ned tilted his head in wary acceptance but made no reply. Where was Belsom’s accustomed bluster and threat?

  “Yes indeed Master Bedwell. I am ashamed to admit that in this tragic affair we have laboured under a number of misapprehensions.” Sir Roderick seemed to pause for a moment, and ruminated as if chewing on a distasteful morsel, then breathlessly launched into an explanation. “The first was the possession of this vessel. I fear that our
agents failed to relay that you are the owner. Be assured they have been punished for that.”

  This was a strange twist. Once again Ned gave a brief nod in reply. News? Yes. Good? Well, maybe not. It didn’t solve the problem of the impounding, and actually it made it worse. True, Meg Black was out of the firing line now, but that left Ned Bedwell there all on his own.

  “The second is your connection to the well known and respected Richard Rich. As you know the Lord Chancellor holds you uncle in high regard for his work at the Courts and extends to you a similar courtesy.”

  Now Ned was really confused—More showing respect for Uncle Richard? What was this? Sir Roderick the Toad continued to smile in a most ingratiating manner. To Ned it was almost frightening. “Yes, yes indeed. My lord has mentioned many times how impressed he is with Master Rich’s ability to sway judges and juries in his pleadings.”

  At that piece of oozing flattery Ned began to see the true message. Uncle Richard’s reputation of inveigling a court case by, ahh, gift or leverage was infamous. So had Belsom just said the Rich clan were renowned as being open to bribery or perhaps had been bribed already? He’d sort that out latter. In the meantime Ned decided it was time to move onto the more urgent matters.

  “What of the murders and the suspicion of heresy?” Ned asked in as casual a tone as he could manage.