The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  This lesson in the mechanics of war was overwhelming and if anyone asked Ned, he would have freely admitted he was adrift in the flurry of arcane terms and technology of this warlike profession. However he had a niggling feeling that while it was all relevant to the disappearance of Ben Robinson, somewhere this confusion was hiding a vital clue. Well for a start he had to review the fields of battle that he understood.

  Firstly there was the royal official Sir Welkin Blackford. From his attire he was a man who made an effort to dress above his title. As evidence the rings on his fingers were of the best quality. Ned had noted a particularly nice sized ruby that flashed in the light of the office as Sir Welkin had fluttered nervously. At a shrewd estimation, the gems and gold on each hand must have been worth a few hundred angels, so where was the value of the office? It wasn’t possible for Sir Welkin to rely on the demi cannon casting rorts to pay for his every day expenses. There had to be something else more regular.

  Then one linking factor struck him and he asked the Doutch artificers a very simple question. “What does it cost for a barrel of powder?”

  That produced a fierce discussion with much waving of arms. Whether those gestures defined sizes, measures or what, Ned was unsure but the brothers finally came to an agreement. As before, Rob Black was delegated as spokesman. His friend looking both shocked and surprised as he turned to deliver their deliberation. “Ahh Ned, I’m a bit unclear they…we had to try and translate their usual weights and prices into our equivalents, but they think a barrel of about a hundredweight, based on the price at Ghent last month, is worth eighty English pounds.”

  “What? Per barrel! Are you sure?” Ned tried hard to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  Rob looked puzzled for a moment before rejoining the huddle of experts. Further mutters and expansive gesturing signalled the efforts of translation until Rob finally straightened up and walked over with a slightly puzzled smile. “Yes Ned. They’re certain of it—eighty English pounds it is! The measures and weights was a bit of trouble, since they had to rework Doutch and imperial standards into London pounds since a good half to two thirds of the powder is bought overseas. Then there was difficulty in the exchange rate for Rhenish florins.” A pair of beard faced nodded in agreement to Rob’s explanation.

  “Sweet Jesu, war is an expensive business!” To Ned this shed a new light on the cost of the cannon’s roar at city celebrations. At sixteen hundred silver shillings or two hundred and sixty gold angels a barrel, it was very clear why the King would want to restrict their use to only supremely important Royal announcements. He wondered just how much powder was used per Gonne. No doubt these two brothers would know down to the nearest peck, but he’d seen a possible answer for the vanished Ben Robinson.

  “So where is the powder stored?”

  That was too easy. All three of his experts smiled and almost in unison came back with the reply. “Here at the Tower.” Henryk obligingly pointed to quite a few of the buildings and battlement towers surrounding Caesar’s Tower in the centre.

  Ned eased down a sudden gulp of apprehension and with growing dawning of awareness, asked the next question in his logical progression towards knowledge. “How many barrels?”

  “Seck duizend.”

  Ned really didn’t need the clarification from Rob. After a final huddle the concept was staggering. “That is six thousand, more or less, at the last count from Master Robinson.”

  And the official who Sir Welkin admitted dealt with the paperwork for this vast quantity of black crumbly volatile gold was missing. Ned didn’t need a doctor’s degree to see the flaws in all this.

  ***

  Chapter 8. The Trade of London, Smarts Key Wharf, Evening, 6th June

  By the time they had concluded their fruitless search for the new powder officials, Edwards and Watkins, there was only a lingering half hour of the late twilight glow to aid in the journey from the Tower gates at Petty Wales to the docks upriver at Byllynsgate. Ned had briefly considered going back to Caesar’s Tower and collaring Sir Welkin, while he was still rattled from their recent visit, though with only vague suspicions and no evidence that effort would be a waste and no doubt bring unwanted attention from the Royal Court. Whomever the patrons of Sir Welkin were, membership of the upper tiers of the Court was a given. Only the highest had the connections to be able to bestow the position. Added to that was the familial relationship with the Dowager Duchess of Buckingham. That could indicate a lot of pull amongst the old nobility. Since Ned had already offended one senior royal officer in Sir Thomas More, it would be unwise to add further complications until he had a better idea of the factional line up. Anyway it could be better to have Sir Welkin sweat. Ned had dropped enough hints of Privy Council interest to make even the most saintly man apprehensive.

  So with Rob Black’s reassuring presence, he left the grey walls of the Tower and walked past the spreading cluster of buildings that had begun to fill in the space between the moat and the river bank towards Petty Wales. Seeing this new sprawl, there was no doubt that the ambitions of their King had been good for trade. This row of structures had sprung up recently to cope with the overflow from the Royal fortress and included storage sheds, workshops and fitting yards for wagons as well as the other impedimenta of war. At times it was more frantic out here than inside, especially when armaments were being prepared for one of the King’s great ships. Then the place swarmed with men and more resembled a scene from Bedlam, complete with screams, shouts and the coarse groaning of stressed rope.

  This evening it lacked the recent frenzy. The only activity was a few men working on one of the wharves loading a small wherry, probably with provisions for one of the King’s vessels at Greenwich. They looked busy and the taller one with his cap topped with a waving peacock’s feather could be seen passing barrels to his companion. That spoke of a dedication lacking in officials like Sir Welkin. Most servants would have sloped off to a tavern by now. Ned nodded approvingly and briefly considered hailing them to see if they’d accept a fee for rowing him and Rob up river. However a guilty conscience and his better angel prompted that his legs need the exercise, and at this moment a walk along the river front could be of more value than lazing in a wherry. With a sigh Ned turned away from the opportunity and strode off with Rob.

  Despite the short distance, the last ragged banners of twilight fled to the west before they reached the wharf. The dimming of the light however didn’t seem to effect the ranting of those damned friars. He saw another one screeching away at the southern waterside boundary of Petty Wales. From the size of the audience, this one was more successful than the fellow at Aldgate. However he was not without opposition. A colourful and beribboned collection of riverside punks disputed his possession of their patch and the ruining of their custom. The girls made overloud sneering comments about the reputed prowess and excess of friars and the abundant woolliness of their usual bed mates. The crowd lapped it up and in true city fashion, egged the angry friar to respond to the challenge, while a few enterprising young lads were capering in front of the gathering, bleating and baaing with keen intent while a third pretended to be a monk. Ned had to smile and threw them a few pence for their effort.

  After that reminder of the plague of friars, it was no surprise to see a cluster of lanterns illuminating another gathering at the customs house at the entrance to Smarts Key. With the bulk of Rob before him Ned easily pushed past the crowd. From what he could see it was a mixed body, some armed retainers, others the usual frequenters of the docks, along with a smattering of merchants. He also noted the hushed talk as he pushed through. Most was the local dockside cant, but the more prosperous of the crowd, spoke in the accented tones of Germans. Word of the happenings here had spread.

  As they made their way past the ranks of ships to their moored vessel, renewed muttering broke out behind them. Ned had this creepy, twitchy feeling run up his neck as if a lump of snow had dropped down his doublet. Something wasn’t right. There was a heavy air of
anticipation of entertainment from the crowd, more than the usual hunger from those of London. Considering the macabre circumstances that was disturbing. He was suddenly very glad a dozen of Gryne’s men were plainly visible as guards on the wharf.

  Once on boarding the ship, Ned gave a brief nod to Gruesome Roger, who barely acknowledged his greeting before pulling Rob eagerly aside. Ned shrugged. Well, since that was the best reception he was going to get, he made his way to the former shipmaster’s cabin.

  Pushing the door open he found Margaret Black ensconced with her Hanse partner from the Steelyards, Albrecht Hagen. Both were bent over the trestle table comparing what must be the shipping records. Her companion would peruse a list through closely held eye glasses and read out some obscure merchant’s term then Meg would sort through the pile of loose parchments until she came across a scrawled reference. To Ned the process looked more chaotic than the usual mayhem of a lawyer’s rooms. He fervently hoped that it meant progress, but from the deep creasing of Meg’s brow, he feared that the reconciliation was not going well.

  Maybe an interruption would serve them all. He cautiously cleared his throat and gained their instant attention. The Hanse merchant looked up, startled and snapped the ledger shut, while Mistress Black swapped her frown from the papers to him. “Good evening Master Hagen. If you would be so kind, I need to speak to Mistress Black.”

  That request gained a very interesting response. From a look of guilty surprise, the Hanse’s face relaxed to tolerant amusement. He gave a muttered greeting and brief bow, and with the ledger clasped under the cover of his long, forked beard, claimed a need for fresh air as he squeezed past. Ned could have sworn he glimpsed a flicker of fear in the fellow’s eye, but maybe it was just the lantern light.

  Ned was never quite sure how to deal with Albrecht Hagan. He had made the merchant’s acquaintance last year during the Cardinal’s Angels affair when the Hanse had sheltered them from the pursuivants of the Duke of Norfolk and Cardinal Wolsey, amongst others. That act of succour had been gratefully received, but Ned had also overheard the Hanse merchant offer to remove one Red Ned Bedwell from the scene, quietly and permanently if that would make Margaret Black’s life any easier. It had been a salutary experience for a young lad when she had, after a considering pause, reluctantly vetoed the suggestion. Since then when they had met, Albrecht had been unfailingly friendly and welcoming. Still Ned thought there was a continuing undertone of speculation.

  Ned took up the vacated stool while Meg lent back and massaged her forehead. Shoving the pile of loose papers to one side he unfolded the writ. A pair of moved lanterns then held it in place while the Meg Black, apothecary’s apprentice, perused their flimsy parchment shield. It didn’t take long.

  Meg flicked a stray lock of hair off her face and shook her head. “So much for your good lord, Ned! He’ll protect us up to a point before offering us as a sacrifice to the Lord Chancellor.”

  Ned wasn’t sure what sort of reception he’d expected—a tad more enthusiasm, mayhap? Her response was muted and dull. Maybe Meg had been spending too much time in the company of corpses. He glanced over at the bunk– no, thankfully it was empty. “Where are Joachim and Pieter?”

  Meg waved towards the door. “They were dressed and moved to the hold by some of the crew. They took the sight pretty badly but they wanted to do these last honours themselves.”

  Ned was relieved. At least that distraction was gone, though it brought up another question. “What of the coroner?”

  Meg pursed her lips for a moment before answering. “That was Doctor Radcliffe. He arrived some hours ago, viewed the bodies and accepted the depositions of our witnesses. However when Albrecht pressed for a release of the bodies, he became very evasive and scurried off.”

  To Ned that sounded ominous. Perhaps the coroner had word from above. Rather than dwell on that complication though, he shifted onto more neutral ground. “So Meg, any luck with the cargo?”

  Her evasive look of the previous day returned. “No…not really.”

  Damn, Ned was hoping for a few clues there. He was really going to have to pin Margaret Black down about their now mutual business practices. However now he floated another suspicion that had been building during the day. “What does More know of your trade in heretical books?”

  His question instantly received a very sharp look from Mistress Black. It was one area of what he occasionally hoped was a burgeoning friendship that they’d only occasionally ventured into. He’d an excellent idea of what she was doing, but so far the unspoken rules of their relationship had restricted it to only the most cursory discussion. That she knew he was sympathetic and on occasion helpful had seemed to be sufficient, up until now.

  Meg Black tapped a finger on the table while she considered her answer. “More has informers and spies everywhere and we know they work with Bishop Stokesley’s pursuivants but now that he’s Lord Chancellor his reach has grown. He still pursues the ‘Brethren’ based at the Steelyard, but has had little success of late. While More had Monmouth arrested the other year and still has the poor fellow languishing in the Tower, his traitors and sneaks have had very little impact. The books get through.”

  Her voice was firm and strong. Meg Black had no doubts as to her confederates, and as Ned had expected, any venture involving Margaret Black was well organised. However something—a hint, a clue, or a word—must have set Sir Thomas More off. His men were on the scene too fast. The ink on Sir Belsom’s writ was barely dry. Well, Ned had another source of information. Lawyers by profession were supposed to be circumspect and tight mouthed. Individually that may be true. However gathered together at the Inns of Court they were more garrulous than a murder of crows. Recently a couple of the tavern plays have used the slur that members of the Inns had more in common with the Corvus clan than just the dark plumage.

  “At the Inns there is talk of the latest translation of the New Testament coming from the Low Countries. It’s got the Lord Chancellor all worked up. I’ve heard Thomas Philips, the leather merchant, has been seized several times to be questioned by his pursuivants and the Bishop’s vicar general, Foxford, concerning the flood of books. Any connection?”

  Meg Black looked very pensive and slightly furtive. “He’s a distant acquaintance and knows a few Brethren, but he is very strong in his faith.”

  Ned quirked an eyebrow. Strength of faith may help hold off the lesser questioning, though when it came to the use of the Rack or the Boot, even the strongest mans’ commitment to his beliefs were sorely tested. He thought it best not point out the flaw in his companion’s argument. “It’s irrelevant whether Philips holds firm or not.”

  That caused Meg Black to look at him as though he had blasphemed. Ned ignored her look and continued. “Neither Philips’ wealth, his connections throughout the city or his trade with the Low Countries, shielded him from More’s attentions.”

  Ned approached the next part of his reasoning with care. After all it was only a suspicion on his part and he didn’t want to add unnecessarily to Meg Black’s already overwhelming concerns. “Since Philips is proving truculent, perhaps the Lord Chancellor is casting his gaze elsewhere—possibly at another prominent and respected merchant family, one also suspected of the taint of heresy and perhaps with Court connections?”

  The light of comprehension widened her eyes attractively. He liked that. Perhaps he should spring surprises on her more often his shoulder daemon suggested, but perhaps not ones like this his angel added.

  “You think that More would commit such an abomination as an excuse?” Meg Black sounded scandalised at the concept.

  Ned didn’t like to speculate on the methods that members of the Privy Council might employ to achieve their ends. It was just sufficient to let a fact percolate. Firstly, the crime of buggery was a felony under church canon law, as was heresy. Secondly, the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond had cargo on board a vessel owned by one Ned Bedwell, nephew of Richard Rich. Thirdly, suspected bible smuggler, Meg Bla
ck, was involved, and as well the vessel was chartered from the Steelyards. Did Sir Thomas More possibly need any further excuse to pounce? To Ned this scene had all the marks of a skilled cony–catcher’s play at the dicing tables.

  It should have been expected. The current Lord Chancellor did have a history of ‘convenient cases’ on which he’d built his career. One in particular stuck in all Londoners memories. “Meg, do you recall Richard Hunne?”

  That one struck home. Meg Black became unusually silent and thoughtful. The case was about the death of Richard Hunne, a very wealthy city tailor. Although it happened over twenty years ago, its merest mention still raised the hackles of nearly every Londoner. Hunne’s five week old son had died, an unfortunately all too common occurrence even with the more modern practice of physick. At the burial, as an extra part of the burial fee, the priest had demanded the very pricy embroidered silk christening robe. The father, deeply offended, had refused. From there it had been taken up as a battle between the rights of common law versus church practice. Initially it had been taken up in the Bishop’s Court, where naturally the court’s decision was in favour of the priest, and then through an unscrupulous twist, the Bishop excommunicated Hunne. The draper had then sought recourse in the Court of the King’s Bench claiming ‘Praemunire’, or to the layman, dealing with a foreign power to the detriment of His Majesty’s sovereignty, a statute over a hundred years old, designed to limit the influence of a hostile pope.