The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Ned let it go on for a while longer until the ship’s company were rolling on the deck gasping for breath between hoots of mirth. True, it was better entertainment than the inmates at Bedlam, but for all that, by the blessed saints the man was a King’s officer, even if he was a buffoon. Ned stepped across to the struggling, entangled knight and deftly pulled the writ out of his purse. Some unskilled artificer had attached the purse to the sword hanger, no doubt as per instructions. The worked cordovan satchel set off the scabbards embossing perfectly. But the problem was that in his suit of half armour, Sir Roderick couldn’t reach his purse or sword. When he tried, his vanbrace and elbow couter became entangled in his violet silk sash, and then the more he struggled and twisted, the more caught up he became. Ned reckoned his old parish priest would have loved this as a homily on ‘The Price of Vanity.’

  After some expensive indignity to his sash, Sir Roderick was free and then snatched the document from Ned’s hand with a snarl. “Unhand me sirrah or I’ll have m’men whip you!”

  The least hint of humour vanished from Ned face. So if that was how the fool wanted to play the game then so be it.

  With an attempt to repolish his tarnished reputation, Sir Belsom thrust the open document in Ned’s face. As expected it had the seal of the Lord Chancellor. Well he wouldn’t be here without it. A pity he didn’t turn up earlier—it would have been very amusing to see him wave it at the mob. “By order of the Lord Chancellor of the Realm, you are commanded to yield this vessel and all persons, matters and materials whatsoever associated with it unto my charge...”

  And so it continued. Ned switched off the meaningless drone and listened instead for the silences. One of his tutors from the university had inducted him into that very useful trick. It wasn’t hard once you knew it. Concentrate on the speech, watching for the words that should be there and for the ones used to hide their absence.

  This writ was definitely pure More. It had that blend of arrogance and superiority that only those who felt themselves far above the commons could spout. For one thing, he had claimed the King’s writ. Ned doubted whether His Majesty had any knowledge of this matter at all. He knew that Cromwell wouldn’t fall into the same error. His lord would nary breathe a word until a successful conclusion was ensured, and just in case, there was that interesting escape clause in the writ given to Ned. But no, it seemed that Sir Thomas More had learnt nothing from the fall of his predecessor. Right now the premier servant of the King was preoccupied hunting down minor heretics. To Ned’s current thinking that was a risky pastime, considering the unsettled mood in the city, and that within a few days the place would be packed with lords, bishops and all manner of gentry to sign the King’s petition to the Pope. There was something definitely strange in Lord Chancellor More’s arrangement of priorities.

  One curious little piece in the writ was that the Lord Chancellor wanted to impound the vessel and take it to Greenwich. Ned could think of a number of reasons for removing the ship from the London docks, but even accounting for the presumption of Sir Thomas More in trying to wrench it from its lawful jurisdiction, the act was a slap in the face to Londoners and the Hanse. Not that it mattered—Ned would sink the ship before he’d let it leave!

  The armoured windbag eventually ran out of script and stood there glaring at his audience, no doubt waiting for the instant compliance or pathetic grovelling that he strangely expected. More’s pursuivant was in for a surprise.

  After a glance at the worried and tight jawed look on Meg Black’s face, Ned felt in a mood for a spot of revenge. “Thank you Sir Roderick for so well informing us as to the request of the Lord Chancellor. I fear, however, it is not possible to comply.”

  And so Ned flourished his own writ, beckoning over one of the larger of Gryne’s men to provide more illumination from his lantern. The fact that the scarred guard towered over Sir Roderick by a foot and a half at least was but a mere detail. Despite the proffered light Sir Roderick markedly flinched as Tam approached. Maybe it was the splattering drops that trailed from the mace still hanging from Tam’s wrist or possibly the sight of the cleaver casually thrust in the guard’s belt.

  Ned noted the pale features of his visitor and had the blossoming of a wickedly bold idea. “Unfortunately this writ from the Privy Council trumps the Lord Chancellor’s and, as such, has preference.”

  So More hadn’t waited. Last night after sending off his complaint to Cromwell, he’d drawn up his own claim. It was a rash and precipitous move, since it was, without a doubt, completely without the knowledge of the King or the Privy Council, and thanks to the delay of his red faced, rotund servant here, it was the best part of twelve hours too late. Sir Roderick however didn’t see the irony of his error and tried to snatch the writ from Ned. It was not a sensible move since the apprentice lawyer simply sidestepped the attempt. As a consequence the heretic hunter stumbled over some of the some of the ship’s coiled ropes and found himself falling flat on the deck with a loud metallic clatter.

  That’s when the full stupidity of his bluster may have begun to percolate through his myopic vision. Usually if one is going to intimidate other, it is a distinct advantage to have the large armed men of your retinue within arms reach, all the better to loom menacingly or to intervene if things went awry. This hadn’t been the case when More’s minion had stomped on board. The twenty or so armed and armoured men at his back had stayed on the wharf, and of them only the sergeant could clearly see the antics of their leader. However that was no help to Sir Belsom. At this sight the sergeant shook his head and turned away, more interested in the lights of Southwark across the river. A wicked smile came to Ned’s face. It appeared Sir Roderick had been unable to engender the sort of loyalty from his underlings that encouraged them to take an active interest in his welfare.

  So pride and clumsiness had been his downfall. Well substantially it had been—a staff deftly slipped betwixt Sir Roderick’s ankles had proved very useful in bringing low the Pursuivant. Tam Bourke had even positioned the accident beautifully so that his attempted ‘rescue’ looked the part. Instead it was edging the stricken gentleman further over the beckoning chasm of the hold hatch. Ned, of course, bent down to assist the royal official, or so it seemed to the guard sergeant. The fellow still made no move to aid his commander and even in the dim lantern light could be clearly seen to shake his head disapprovingly at such a display of amateur clumsiness. At a guess he’d assumed his master had once more fallen prey to his unaccustomed armour.

  Ned took up the opportunity and quickly knelt down next to his visitor, his mouth closer to the scarlet plumed helmet. “Now Sir Roderick, let us come to an amicable agreement, before you have an unfortunate accident.”

  A firm hand on the man’s gorget gave the struggling pursuivant a significant push. The implications of a tumble head first, armour and all, down into the hold were not lost on Sir Roderick Belsom. His pasty face gargled and spluttered in fright.

  “Now my writ has prior claim. Please nod for the witnesses.” Ned kept his voice low and conversational as if explaining a simple matter. The pursuivant tried to call out, but a slight dipping had his mind more firmly concentrated on the ominous darkness below. The choking strap of his helmet made conversation very painful but a nodding of the plumed helm was plainly visible.

  “Now I’m a generous man, Sir Roderick. I’ll grant you a concession. At the end of my writ I will present myself to your master, as commanded and all success will be accorded to you. However you will leave this vessel and all aboard alone until that writ expires. I have your word as a knight?”

  The last frantic nodding could have been the glimmer of rationality or, as Ned suspected, more probably the increased slipping of the Pursuivant’s position.

  “Just to be sure we have an understanding, Mistress Black could you get a quill and some ink?” It wasn’t the best signature and parts of the script required close scrutiny to decipher, but considering the angle of suspension and the restrictions of the armour,
it was a very credible effort and very, very legal. At the conclusion Sir Roderick Belsom was hauled upright, dusted off and escorted spluttering from the ship. Once on the wharf he stood glaring up at the troop sergeant who just stood stock still and stared straight ahead into the middle distance well above the helm of his commander. From the accomplished sheen of dumb obedience, the fellow must be used to dealing with commanders whose intellect and ability rated poorly in comparison to a parsnip.

  Unfortunately for the evening’s entertainment, Sir Roderick held by a finger nail’s breadth to his dignity, and held on to the brimming rage and anger that purpled his complexion. Giving the vessel’s occupants an ominous glare, he straightened his sash and made a brusque jerky wave to set his troop in motion back the way they’d come. Pity, Ned had been looking forward to the expected display of temper. It wasn’t until the sound of the tramp and rattle of iron wear had passed up Billingsgate Street that the visible strain on the vessel eased with men replacing surreptitiously held weapons.

  Margaret Black came over with the scrawled concession. She had rounded up from the crew and guards a dozen signatures or marks to give the document its required legitimacy. At least Albrecht was still present. That made it look a little better than a quick whip round in a Southwark stew, which was the usual validation presented at an inquest. He seen a couple of that kind presented in court. Like the one last month that had claimed all the occupants of a tavern were with the accused in the jakes at the time of the quite accidental death of Grumbling Geoff of Pevensy. Thus once more Canting Michael of Southwark was proved to be innocence of the slaying. But then it was a Sussex inquest and Canting Michael knew where each of the gentlemen serving on the panel lived, a fact not ignored in their consideration.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve and Ned turned towards the concerned face of Meg Black. “Ned…Ned, are you sure this will help us?”

  She still sounded worried. Well that was understandable what with murder, More, the riot and Belsom. Ned put on his most reassuring demeanour, hoping his uncertainty wouldn’t leak through. It was possible that the Lord Chancellor could ignore any agreement or for that matter any of the common practices of the kingdom’s laws. But considering his other duties, it was highly probable he was too busy to inquire too closely.

  “Belsom will return in due course, probably tomorrow. He first has to come up with a reasonable excuse to More as to why the ship hasn’t been seized and why I am still in charge of the inquiry. If he has any sense he’ll claim the writ from Cromwell and the gathering lords for the Petition as a reason for not causing a disturbance.”

  Ned shrugged. He felt that it was a fairly close prediction. After all Sir Roderick had to find someone else to blame for his failure or else he’d lose his position. That’s why Ned had given him the sop of taking all the credit. It was a spur of the moment decision. If everything worked out then Ned couldn’t care less, and if it didn’t then that would be the least of his concerns.

  “I think Meg, we’ve maybe three days if you can sneak anything off.” Ned waved a hand towards the buildings opposite the wharf. “But I’d lay a dozen angels Belsom has spies. Anything too obvious and he’ll be back with a hundred men. So we have a stalemate.”

  “Until the murders are solved.” Meg Black had certainly hit the nail on the head. It all still revolved around those two as yet unexplained slaying, though something kept tweaking at Ned’s thoughts, perhaps his shoulder daemon’s whisperings that the murders were the least of his problems.

  ***

  Chapter 11. Fuer! Fuer! The Ruyter, Night time 6th June

  Ned was trying to recall if there were any further matters he needed to discuss with Meg Black when the steersman stumbled back on to the deck. He still had the opened barrel of powder in his arms. The fellow was clearly agitated and he thrust the barrel into the arms of Rob Black, and gasping, pointed with a shaking hand toward the forward hold.

  “Feuer! Feuer! Vorwärts ladungspeicher knollenpulver schießpulver! Feuer in der Ladung nahe dem Schießpulver!”

  It took a few moments for Ned to figure out enough of that quavering cry to set his palms sweating with fear. Rob Black was quicker. He shoved the dangerous barrel into his sister’s arms and pushed her towards the gang plank, calling out to the crew. “Buckets! Get buckets and water! Wannan und wasser!”

  The good Lord save them! There was a fire in the forward hold near the gunpowder store! It was the sort of cry that had any Londoner justifiably afraid. With all the timber houses and thatch roofs the threat of fire was a constant concern, even more so on the docks where along with the several other vessels tied up, all manner of highly combustible materials were stored. Twenty barrels of turpentine and pitch stood barely a dozen yards away on the wharf. But Gonne powder, that was something else, especially after Ned’s recent initiation by the Gonne artificers at the Tower. Oh God no! Considering the unstable nature of the black grains, a spark could set it off, blowing up the ship and the wharf. Damn! He’d no idea how much powder this vessel usually carried!

  Ned joined the tumbled rush down the stairs into the hold, almost tripping over one of the sailors. He’d grabbed a length of hurriedly damped canvas. Ned fervently hoped it’d be enough. He needed no warning about the dangers of fire on board a ship. A few years ago, during a royal celebration, one of the ships moored in the river had disintegrated in a thunderous roar, raining flaming debris on both sides of the river and amongst the other moored vessels. Four hours effort by hundreds of citizens had luckily been enough to extinguish the threatening flames. At the inquest an account by one of the vessel’s few survivors was that the drunken ship’s mate had wanted to join in the cannonade from the Tower and loaded one of the ship’s small Gonnes but had been careless with his lantern. It had been a salutary lesson and as a result supposedly all ships in port were to make extra provisions for safety.

  Ned hit the lower deck with a jarring thud that shook his teeth. The source of their concern was clearly visible. The yellow orange tongues of flame lit the space with a fearful clarity. With an act borne more of fright and desperation than courage, Ned charged forwards to join the macabre throng of screaming, frantic men who flailed at the threatening flames with anything that came to hand. Leading the battle was the prominent figure of his friend, Rob Black, who could be seen in the grimly flickering light, throwing sacks and barrels of cargo out of the path of the advancing flames. He hoped that Rob picked correctly. But as his angel philosophically stated, if not they probably wouldn’t know about it until they awoke at the Last Judgement.

  It was desperate work in that close space, tripping over bales and sacks, colliding with the others battling the flames, all to the flaring illumination of their foe. Ned would have preferred to face several mobs of rioters than this hot, throat clogging pandemonium. One sailor had tried to get some relief by smashing open the forward hatch for air, till Rob had felled him with a casual blow. He called out that the fresh air would just invigorate the fire. So they laboured on as if in the darkest regions of hell, spurned by the fervent hope that the fire would be quenched soon.

  Ned collapsed on the deck gulping in chest fulls of the pure air of the riverside in between coughing up gouts of black ash and muck. By all that was holy, it burned the throat. Meg and Albrecht were walking amongst the combatants littered across the deck, passing out firkins of ale and wine. Never was a drink more gratefully received. The fire was definitely out. It had been touch and go for a while though. Ned couldn’t say for how long the battle under the deck had taken. It had seemed to last for hours. The crucial point was when Rob had found the three tun sized barrels of English beer. He’d pulled some great axe from somewhere, and with a mighty swing had breached them one after another and the hungry flames had drowned in the foaming surge. Thank the good Lord for the thirst of the Low Countries.

  He had downed a good measure from a proffered leather jack when Rob finally emerged from the blackened depths. Ned passed him the half full jack and his fri
end emptied it in a couple of steady swallows. “Ned, there’s something I need you to see. Get Meg and Albrecht, then follow me below.”

  It was a brief command and the sort of peremptory summons he’d more expect from Rob’s sister. Ned may have considered questioning it, except that he had caught sight of his friend’s grim countenance. So he acquired the requested Black sibling, with minimal argument for a change, and once more descended into the scene of their latest battle.

  Ned couldn’t call himself experienced in dealing with fires so he had very little idea whether the damage to the vessel was significant or not. Of more concerning was the reaction of Margaret Black. She looked almost distraught at the fire blackened timbers. Considering the joint ownership, he was a suddenly worried about how much of the Cardinal’s Angels were now invested in charcoal. Thrusting that concern aside, they met Rob by the most damaged part of the forward hold. He was kneeling by an opened shutter in the bow area.

  “We have a problem.” Rob said as he pointed at the section most charred by the flames.

  “What is that?” asked Albrecht, who immediately walked over to the indicated blackened ribs and gave them a thump, and was answered by a solid sharp rap at which he nodded in clear approval. “These still look sound.”

  At that measured judgement both Ned and Margaret Black heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Ned’s charcoal apprehension eased. But Rob was still frowning as if an anvil had settled over his brows.

  “No, its not the ship’s timbers!” Rob shook his head and shifted to shine the yellow glow from his lantern over the shattered remnants of a jug in the corner of the deck and a seam of heavily charcoaled timber that wound its way up to the opening. The others just looked blankly at the pile of debris. With so much else broken and scattered in the chaos of the past hour, why this patch was important to Rob escaped them.