It took a few moments in the dim light until their non–comprehension got through to the young artificer. Finally, after a last wave of the lantern and a brief resigned shake of his head, Rob explained the modern practice of pyrotechnics. “Master Owen the gun founder, showed me one of his books on the arts of warfare as practiced in foreign lands. That had drawings, recipes and description of various incendiary devices for setting fire to buildings and fortifications. Now to my eye this looks just like one.”
Ned knelt down beside the shattered jug and took another close inspection. Well he could see lots of black and singeing from the fire, but still any arcane meaning escaped him.
His friend pulled the other two closer into the illumination of the lantern and bent over, explaining his discovery. “See this line of charring up to the opening? If you look at this ledge, it continues to the outer hull just here, and I’ve checked the timbers on the outside. It continues for a hand span down the planking.”
Ned still thought Rob was spinning fancy out of moonshine but made doubtfully inquisitive, humming noises. His sister however must have been more accustomed to his delusions. She just crossed her arms defensively and quirked a sceptical eyebrow. “Hmmph, just a charred rope from the fire, that’s all!”
“No I don’t think so. According to Master Owens’ book, first a pottery vessel is filled with turpentine or distilled spirit of wine. Then it is sealed with wax three quarters of the way full. Finally a small charge of black powder is packed into the top of the neck. Then it has a long fuse set in the top using tar, a couple of yards long by my estimation. You light the fuse and leave fast.”
Alright, it seemed to make sense. From all Ned had heard today, black powder was chancy stuff, so it may be possible, but for Rob’s sister this clearly smacked of children’s tales. “So Master Artificer, how did it get on board? Spirited on by the Piskies?”
That comment just dripped of sibling scorn. Rob however must have been used to it. He just shook his head and continued with his scenario. “It would have been easy while we were fending off the mob. Use a wherry to row up to the bow of the ship. Pry open the shutter and slip in the incendiary pot. Strike a light on the fuse and then row off and watch.”
Yes, Ned could see how simple that would have been. Albrecht gave a slow nod of agreement, then voiced the suspicion that had sparked through all their thoughts once Rob had finished his reasoning. “This would be a deliberate attempt to burn the ship…yes?”
Rob Black had been so caught up in solving the cause of the fire that he had actually lost track of the wider situation. Ned could see that the full implications of the event had percolated through to everyone there. He had to act. For him it was another shocking insight. The only other possibility if it wasn’t the ship they were after, then it was someone onboard. The only one he could think of who was tangled in the bloody events of the past few days was Margaret Black. Had she seen something someone didn’t want remembered? Or found? It was a chilling consideration and one that Ned didn’t want loose amongst the crew. It was time for extra precautions. Ned gave a quick glance into the shadows of the hold. The crew and Gryne’s men were all back on deck, washing off the soot and grime of the evening.
“I think,” Ned dropped his voice lower, “I think we need to discuss this in private.”
Rob and Albrecht gave a short nod of agreement and shepherded a dazed Meg Black between them, out of the hold and into the former shipmaster’s quarters. What surprised Ned was that for once there wasn’t any complaint from the usually stroppy Mistress Margaret. Considering the shocks of these past two days, that lack of spirit had Ned quite worried. All through the chaos last year she had been unflinchingly combative and dismissive of his actions and suggestions. In a perverse sort of way, he missed those thumps and buffets that punctuated their usual discussions.
Ned quickly poured a healthy serve of liquor from a flask of brandy wine into the small horn cups on the trestle table. They needed a bracing after the panic of the evening. Albrecht peered at him over the rim of his cup with a slight frown and shot out a question “So Master Bedwell, is it possible someone is trying to destroy the ship, or perhaps kill us?”
No doubt about it, the Hanse merchant was sharp. That was the same question that had occurred to Ned in the damaged hold. ‘Why’ was the next logical part of the question, and he didn’t have any answers to that. They were missing whole sets of clues, for murder, for riot, for arson and the damned Lord Chancellor’s interest. Albrecht looked worried and well he should. A fair part of the cargo was his.
“Ahh, it…it is likely to be both.” Ned made the admission reluctantly.
“Why? Why all this for one ship?” Albrecht had parried his answer with another more difficult question.
“I have no idea.” As much as it galled him to show ignorance, Ned had to speak honestly. “All I can say is that I suspect that somehow the murders of Joachim and Pieter and the riot are tied.”
Margaret Black shook her head and waded in to the discussion. “No! The affray on the wharf is connected with More’s clumsy pursuivant! It was a perfect chance for him to seize the ship without any complaint from the merchants or the city!”
Ned suppressed a grin with a covering hand. The brandy wine had worked. Meg Black was regaining her accustomed sharpness, even if she was wrong. Ned shook his head and gave his view on the preceding events. “I doubt it Meg. I thought that at first, but the timing was too close. If the ship is blown up and all of us killed, then how is the Lord Chancellor to have his heretics to question, and the satisfaction he would gain from that? Anyway, as Rob will tell you, gonne powder is unpredictable. If Belsom had organised it, there’s a good chance he’d have been killed as well.”
Reinforcing this position, Albrecht spoke up in support of Ned’s interpretation. “He iz right Margaret. Sir Thomas More wants a spectacle of public penance. That’s why he took Humphrey Monmouth from the Steelyard. He wants us with faggots in our hands at the burnings.”
The Hanse merchant shook his head and spat a derisive black gob out of the porthole. “As for Sir Roderick Belzom, he iz a peacock, every day strutting along the docks, parading his master’s power.”
From the limited time he’d had with Belsom, Ned had to agree. The fellow loved his plumes and sparkling armour.
“A bishop’s ass is smarter. Belzom could not have planned this.” Albrecht finished his summation and crossed his arms.
As far as Ned could see, it was a reasonable assessment of both More and his minion. As for the attempted assault on the ship, that would have been easy enough to organise. A scattering of coins spread along the dockside taverns. A few whispered suggestions. It would have been the perfect excuse. Foreigners always made good scapegoats. However the problem with that was it still came back to the central question—why destroy the vessel now? Why not at the time of the murder? After all there had been no one alive on the ship to stop whomever from doing whatever they wanted. But most concerning of all, what was so important that a ship was left undisturbed for several hours a few days ago but now was too dangerous to be left floating. It certainly was a conundrum!
Any solution though would have to wait though. Ned had a more pressing matter to deal with first. “Mistress Black, I was wondering what are your plans for tomorrow?” That was a very awkward way of placing an offer to escort her away from the now dangerous vessel. He hoped it sounded better than it did to his ears.
Apparently not, for he received such a speculative frown that he suspected his reddening face was clearly visible in the lantern light. Albrecht must have received a lungful of ash in the hold, for suddenly he covered his mouth and muffled a series of coughs.
Meg Black however drew out the long moments before giving a condescending answer. “Why Master Bedwell, I was going up river with a friend on a boating jaunt. If you’re feeling lonely, I am sure they won’t mind if you tag along.” All delivered in sweet mocking tones.
Ned knew he’d coloured as re
d as beetroot now. Damn! His shoulder daemon instantly suggested Meg was off on a boating trip with some swain. No, that couldn’t be. Surely he would have noticed? Wouldn’t he? The daemon’s feeling, now on firmer ground, reminded him of several young gentlemen who frequented the apothecaries shop. Actually a great deal more than several. With three attractive young girls with possibly substantial dowries, it was surprising that it was not constantly besieged by eager suitors twelve deep, all no doubt complaining of lovesick maladies in rhyming verse. If Master Williams only knew of the possibilities, he’d make a fortune selling love remedies.
Now this was a nasty bind. His natural instinct was to find the offender and challenge the swine to a duel, then stomp all over the unworthy miscreant. But his daemon prompted second thoughts. Perhaps that would engender unacceptable sympathy for the defeated and put him at a greater disadvantage. Women could be a bit odd like that. One more option presented itself. Maybe if he got walloped, not badly, just enough to prompt general sighing. Ahh, perhaps not. Reality and his better angel struck hard at that dream. The last time Meg had bandaged his wounds it had been a particularly painful experience, involving hot irons and the aroma of searing flesh—his! Ned didn’t want to go down that path again any time soon.
So it appeared that Ned Bedwell had no choice. He would have to swallow his pride if he wanted to ensure the protection of Mistress Black. With the suppressed sound of gritted teeth, he bowed and gave the only answer possible. “Why thank you for your kind offer, Mistress Margaret. I believe I will.”
Albrecht’s coughing fit continued. Damn that ash!
***
Chapter 12. A Boating on the River, To Richmond Palace, Morning 7th June
It was another beautiful summer morning with the water sparkling from the warm yellow sunlight as the boat glided past the leafy banks, rich with the enchanting sound of bird song, while the pattern ripples of the river surface betrayed the lurking presence of trout or pike. What could have been more perfect for pleasure or poetry?
For Ned, lost in a black mood and with shoulder muscles straining, the sky could have been stricken with heavy pendulous clouds, wreathed in lightening and thunder for all he cared for the scenery. Damn Meg Black! She had done it again and he’d walked into it, wide eyed and well intentioned! Here he damned well was, hands blistering on the oar, muscles unaccustomed to the work screaming with the effort of propelling the heavy craft upstream. His annoying shoulder daemon hissed in satisfaction at his disenchantment. Maybe next time he would ask a few more questions, hmm? Anyway if someone wanted to use Mistress Meg high and mighty Black for target practice, damn him if he wouldn’t hand the fellow a bow and quiver of arrows and paint the roundels on her himself!
It must have been the lack of sleep and improvised bed that left him so lack witted the next morning. After the fire he’d helped Albrecht organise more guards, a few in small wherries, so as to ensure that no one attempted to deploy another incendiary device again. After that he could have sworn he heard the bells sound for midnight and had fallen, exhausted, into the shipmaster’s cabin with a bit of sacking as a blanket. None of the crew or guard seemed keen on sleeping below decks. He’d awoken after a very inadequate sleep accompanied by disturbing dreams of grim faced friars preaching doom and damnation while tossing gouts of flame around the city and all the while heckled by the gap throated ghost of Joachim.
It didn’t help that it was a well placed prod from Mistress Black in the ribs that had roused him from his troubled slumber. What was even worse somehow was that she had managed a change of clothes into a very attractive blue kirtle and bodice with silk trim—the Lord knew how she did it! She even looked clean and washed while Ned was left in what was once his best set of clothes, now blackened and grimed. His slashed doublet with the exposed red velvet was a disaster and best not talked about. His aunt would have several kinds of fit if she saw it. As for his finest white shirt, ahh, greying black was not a becoming shade.
After the abrupt awakening he’d managed to duck his head in a proffered bucket of water and convince some of the looser flakes of grit to part company. Though his hair still needed a good comb, from the itching behind his ears he suspected lice had once more moved in. A jug of small ale and a ravel loaf went some way towards at least comforting his stomach and then the day began to look brighter. A smiling Meg had acquired a passing boat and he, Rob, and Gruesome Roger had piled in, for as they were told, a brief journey. His better angel had pointed out that riverbank seductions by rivals weren’t all that likely with her brother in tow. Meanwhile Ned made careful note of the tidal flow. No tidal surges—excellent. So he wasn’t going to experience another of the Black’s practical jokes of shooting through the tidal race at the Bridge. Last year’s single occasion had been more than enough for this lifetime and the next!
To his surprise and relief they only travelled to Bear Inn on the city end of the Bridge and left the grumbling boatman behind. He’d wanted a larger fare. However Mistress Black had targeted him with a particularly icy glare which had silenced the wherry man until well after they’d climbed up the worn stone stairs. It was common practice to disembark on the down river side and cross to the upper river side of the bridge and then engage another wherry. As every citizen of London knew, it was always faster to travel on the river than to battle through the city traffic. So if you wanted to get from, say, Petty Wales to Temple Bar, hail any one of the several thousand wherries and pay your coin. The only bottle neck was the Bridge. This morning it had been open for an hour so the road was still packed with carts of produce pulled by horses or oxen and trudging crowds eager to cross for either the wonders of the city or the dubious pleasures of Southwark.
However they didn’t have to challenge that cursing and bellowing surge. Instead Mistress Black led them a short distance along the waterfront to the haunt of the Hanse merchants in London, the stone walled compound of the Steelyard. Ned thought that bit odd since Albrecht had been left in charge of the vessel and its compliment of crew and guards. So why here? His suspicious daemon of the previous night reappeared. It was an assignation with one of the young Hanse merchants! Some tall fellow, with blonde hair, piercing sky blue eyes, all his own teeth, and wealthy too. That last factor always pulled the girls. The swine was probably a follower of Luther’s as well, just to cap it off. Ned ground his teeth in suppressed anger.
Gruesome Roger must have heard his strangled snarl for he raised one eyebrow in sardonic amusement, and slowly smirking, shook his head. That didn’t make it any better. Ned gripped the hilt of his blade until his knuckles turned white. He wasn’t here for anyone’s amusement and definitely not that cursed measle’s prick, Hawkins, by God and all the saints!
As Ned pulled hard on the oar. The remembered rancour of the morning returned. Fooled again—it was so typical. He was too honest and trusting, moaned his daemon. There was no swain, or even the hint of an idyllic passage up the river. Instead Margaret Black; the most treacherous of girls, had met up with a friend, one completely unexpected. Ned was sure it was a conspiracy. After all why else would he be lured here on this vessel larger than the Mary Rose? He’d naturally expected one of the usual small river craft, the sort that commonly plied passengers up and down the river. Cosy, comfortable and powered by a pair of oars wielded by an experienced river man or two. Instead he was forced to regard their chosen vessel with profound dismay. It was a cargo barge of the style used to transport bulk goods, like those hoys he’d rescued during the grain scandal during the cold days of February. Similar to those, it was of large size and if the wind was favourable, had a mast and sail. However it also came equipped with several sets of sweeps to propel the craft against the tidal or river flow. At the Steelyard wharf on first sight of their new ‘pleasure’ craft, Mistress deceitful Black had given a glad cry and jumped onboard, hugging a very unconventional shipmaster– Mistress Emma of the Bee Skep Tavern.
And that was the start of his problems. Pride, arrogance and unquestioning
trust had been his downfall again, so here he was pulling the long oar in this bloody barge, carrying a dozen tuns of the finest Bee Skep double ale up to the Royal palace of Richmond. In the meantime Mistress damn her treachery Black and her laughing companion Mistress Emma the alewife sat in the stern in comfort and under the shade of a canopy. His daemon whispered that they were undoubtedly making disparaging comments on the quality of oarsmen and engaging in all manner of malicious plotting. To Ned the vanished prospect of a Hanse swain didn’t look near so appalling after two hours manning a sweep. The fact that both girls looked particularly splendid in silk, velvet–trimmed dresses, pearl drop necklaces, and the ubiquitous mark of an up to date reformist girl, a pearl studded French hood. It was stunning apparel more suited for the elegant dalliance of court. Ned though was stripped to the waist and sweating. This exercise in contrasts, along with their shaded seat, gave his smouldering rancour a bitter edge.
The only minor consolation, if he cared to call it that, was that Queen Katherine was currently ensconced at Richmond Palace. So with luck, and as long as the uncaring and callous Mistress treachery be her name Black didn’t create any more difficulties, he could complete one of the required tasks for Councillor Cromwell.
Ned lent over the heavy oar and gasped from the effort. Two hours solid rowing up stream against the current and finally they had made it to the Royal palace. From the perspective of the river as they slowly pulled closer, it was something to see, a dramatic representation of the modern taste and splendour of their Tudor monarch. True, it had been substantially rebuilt by the present King’s father on the site of an earlier Royal estate. That aside, the building was just incredible—the tall, white stone, octagonal towers several storeys high, bracketing the main buildings, themselves over four storeys, all shimmering above the variegated trees of the orchard that filled the land between the walls and the riverbank. Such a simple description could have sounded like any other grim fortress of the land, pressed into use despite its manifest unfitness for inhabitation. This collection of buildings gave that old necessity the lie. All the walls and towers were punctured with glass paned windows on every level. In fact the side that flanked the river seemed to cascade myriad refracts of rainbow hues from the summer sun, as if it was the castle of the ‘Faerie King’.
The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 14
