The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Reluctantly Ned broached a delicate question. “Ahh, how does she regard her niece, Lady Anne?” Ned received such a look of bewilderment from both girls, as if he had asked if grass was green.

  Emma snorted and shook her head. “There’s no love between them. In fact if Satan’s devils seized the Lady Anne and dragged her down to Hell, Lady Elizabeth would dance for joy, though not as much as if they took her husband.”

  Somehow Ned expected it was one of those ‘friendly’ familial relationships, which could only be expected. If her husband favoured the niece then naturally she hated Anne, as he suspected did her mother.

  “Her mother is the widow of Buckingham.”

  Meg looked disdainfully at Ned, perhaps considering him as contender for village idiot.

  If he recalled correctly the Dowager Duchess was originally a Percy, one of the powerful families who controlled the wild lands south of the Scottish border. During the conflict between the rival houses of York and Lancaster their support had been decisive.

  Ned retorted with his own bitingly obvious question. “And don’t you remember how she became a widow?”

  A sudden contemplative pool of silence spread through the gathering as each person delved into the common recollections of the dark history of the Stafford clan.

  Long time supporters of the Tudor, the Staffords had been present right back at the beginning of the dynasty when the King’s father, Henry VII had crossed over from France and faced the Yorkist King Richard at Bosworth Field. In fact it was the boast of the Stafford clan that they made the Tudor victory possible, though why Richard had trusted the Staffords in the first place was a Bedlamite’s guess, since one of them had been married to Henry Tudor’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, at the time. Perhaps, Ned considered, desperation bred strange moods and delusions in kings.

  These days it paid not to show too keen an interest in those suspect matters. After all, it was only five years since the last Yorkist claimant, Richard de la Pole, had died at Pavia. The King had been so overjoyed at the news that he ordered a week of celebrations including free wine and fireworks. Some muttered that the apparent pleasure at de la Pole’s demise hinted at an uncomfortable seat on the English throne.

  The situation with Edward Stafford was very different. He had been a Knight of the Garter, Warden of the Welsh Marches, Lord High Constable, member of the Privy Council, and very, very close to both kings of the Tudor Dynasty. His father had paid the price for that support, and was executed after leading a failed rebellion against usurper Richard of Gloucester.

  Steadfast loyalty to the House of Tudor should have been rewarded, and in a just world it would have been. However due to some rancour betwixt Tudor father and son, the old King, when seriously ill at Calais a few years before his death, gathered a select group of lords to witness the disinheritance of his son, Henry, in favour of Buckingham. Or so it was said. Naught came of it in the end, but still the rumour had currency at the Inns even now.

  The favour of princes was fickle. Dr Caerleon had stated just this, last year when he’d spoken about the action of the present king as a younger man, at the time he had come to the throne. First to feel the cruel edge of the axe had been the ‘deadwood’ of his father’s supporters, and after that those with significant family connections were similarly blighted.

  Edward Stafford must have fallen amongst the latter, for nine years ago he was suddenly arraigned for treason and executed on a bizarre set of charges. As such affairs went, it was dramatic and at first very public, but after that very, very silent. The fate of traitors helped concentrate one’s thoughts and probably some speculated on the meeting at Richmond Palace.

  Ned had an overwhelming feeling that they were stepping close to a very sharp precipice, toes right at the edge, leaning out towards the chasm. The dire predictions of the friars marched across his imagination. If he had an astrologer, they may be able to make sense of this mess. A brief image of Dr Caerleon’s lined face peering at a bronze instrument came into his mind. He really should make time to see the old man—some sage advice on the course of the stars was becoming urgent. That’s if he could trust the old schemer! Ned shook his head to banish the ill omen and rejoined the company in the here and now.

  Rob was asking him a question. “Ned, have you heard what’s likely to happen when the King’s petition goes to the Parliament? Who’s backing it?”

  That was an excellent question. The intersection of powerful factional interests always made the Commons a volatile place, where greed, grievance and rivalry created their own shifting alliances. Ned sucked his teeth for a moment in thought before he gave an answer. “At the Inns they say that Wiltshire and Norfolk have been pressing their clients and friends to sign the petition. Suffolk isn’t exactly opposing the King’s desire but he loathes the Boleyns, so the numbers could waver, especially if he aligns with Fischer and the others who back Katherine.”

  Now that Ned had a chance to think about it, the situation was a great deal more complex than he’d originally considered. “Also, I’ve heard from my uncle that there’s a muttering of complaint, no outright refusal as yet, none risk drawing the King’s displeasure, but he said it was growing. If they had a reason, or a prominent lord as a leader, then there’s a fair chance the petition could stall.”

  A result like that didn’t bear thinking about. The fall of Wiltshire and Lady Anne was one dreadful possibility. While the rest were working over its implications, Meg Black again moved along her own line of questioning. “Who does More support?”

  Before he answered, Ned took a sip of wine and mulled that one over, trying not to look disturbed. Who did the Lord Chancellor back? He threw out what he knew into the common pool of knowledge.

  “Now that’s a tad difficult to pin down. More doesn’t visit the Inns so much these days. It’s said by a few that he thinks himself too grand now to consort with our fraternity. And according to some little whispers that I’ve heard recently, he’s even claimed that the King, on many occasions, has asked his advice on matters of canonical law, even going so far as boasting that once His Majesty placed his arm around More’s shoulders while strolling through his gardens at Chelsea.”

  Meg Black snorted dismissively and interrupted. “He would, but I know he also wrote a book for Queen Katherine a few years ago, in support of her marriage. Isn’t that in direct opposition to the King’s desires?”

  Ned frowned. It was just like Mistress Black to ruin his next point. However he had to concede that she was correct and it did highlight a conundrum. In all the kingdom, it was said that only two men had a full appreciation of the King’s mind on the matter of his annulment. One was Cardinal Wolsey, now in disgraced exile up in the wilds of the North, and the other was the new Lord Chancellor.

  “Hmmm, More has been in the King’s service for fifteen years. I’d expect that, despite the book for the Queen, he’d still do His Majesty’s bidding.” That was just common sense—you provide the King with what he wants and you prosper. Falter and you fall. Wolsey found that out.

  This sensible appraisal, however, didn’t satisfy the persistent Meg Black. “Of course, Ned. If you say so.” The sneering disdain in her voice said otherwise.

  What little patience Ned had remained now ran out. Would nothing satisfy her? “Look, my family and the More’s have a long running dislike. I loath him as an arrogant know–it–all who feels himself to be above the considerations of the practice of our law, while I’m sure you hate him for what he is doing to Lollards and supporters of Luther! However despite all that, he’s the Lord Chancellor and took an oath to uphold the common weal of His Majesty and of the kingdom. As any man at Court knows, England needs an heir. It is in the best interests of us all, even Sir Thomas More, that the King marries Lady Anne!”

  He didn’t need to mention the fact that if the annulment and petition fell through there were only two possibilities for the kingdom—either option one, another round of fratricidal killing, while the nobles sorted out
who had the most royal blood in their veins, or option two, becoming a Hapsburg possession.

  Not surprisingly it was Meg Black who first saw the flaws in his argument and smugly said so. “What if More accepted a pension from Emperor Charles to aid the Queen? It’s common knowledge that Wolsey accepted the fees from a couple of bishoprics, worth thousands of pounds and he swore the same oath.”

  Ned would have given his right arm to be able to say otherwise. This was getting annoying. She’d faulted him twice so far, and he wasn’t about to let her do so for a third time. It was time to try a different approach. “Is it just me or does anyone else get a tad worried about such a collection of powerful women plotting mischief, and all with an acknowledged grudge against the King, Norfolk and Lady Anne?”

  This was the right question and it appeared that he had voiced a suddenly shared suspicion. Even the contrary Meg Black was forced, however grudgingly, to agree. It gave him a very warm glow of triumph until her next words. “So Master Pursuivant, what do you suggest we do about it?”

  That warm glow lighting up his self esteem winked out. Ned hadn’t travelled that far in his planning. From her slight smirk, Mistress Black knew it and was revelling in his discomfort. In his various studies, Ned had occasion to read a few classical authors, men who wrote of the tactics and stratagems of battle. In their works the Romans, Vegitius and Livy revealed the secrets of triumph, the skills of preparation, planning and judgement, and most of all, when dire circumstance wavered in the balance, the intuition of the leader to make the snap decision that brought to him the palms of victory.

  With these in mind Ned now put forward the plan that had just now come to him. “Simple, we engage a dozen or so of Gryne’s lads to watch the riverside, from Westminster to Three Cranes wharf, for the arrival of the Staffords. They’ll have a city residence where no doubt the plot will be centred and from where they’ll send out messages to launch their scheme before the day of the petition.”

  Ned was in full flow now. He’d thought about this—what would he do, if he’d planned some sort of conspiracy? “Once we know, we’ll organise a raid and, and…”

  Under the once more scornful gaze of Meg Black, Ned stumbled to a halt, well that and the vain attempts of Mistress Emma to silence a fit of giggles. Meg Black, the doubter of all his arguments so far, lent forward over the table and gave her reply in very clear tones, each word hard edged with disapproval. “No, I think we will not! For one thing, a good half of Gryne’s men are guarding the Ruyter. If we need the rest you’ll have them scattered halfway across the city. Guards they are and good at it, but to use them as spies? That’d stretch the native intelligence the good lord granted them. If that weren’t enough, hulking great lads that they are, at six foot a piece, and covered in edged ironware—wouldn’t they stand out?”

  Ned wearily rubbed his face. Damn that impudent girl. This was the third time she’d tripped him up. Reason and sense be damned! Her sarcastic tones transmuted his well earned, golden palms to bitter ashes. Thus anger and inspiration spurred his reply.

  “So Mistress know thee all, you have a better idea?” The tone and inflection were meant to be biting, full of the dismissive rancour he left. How was Ned to know it would turn mere defeat into a rout?

  The barge trip for Meg Back had obviously provided sufficient time and opportunity to exercise her natural skills at organisation and deception, no doubt Ned thought ironically, the same ones that made her such a successful smuggler. He’d have sat there, embarrassingly opened mouthed in astonishment, if the promised meal hadn’t made an opportune appearance. As a result he at least had something else to occupy his attention while he listened in growing wonder and disbelief to her plan.

  The heretical underclass was much better organised and extensive than he’d ever imagined. Mind it stood to reason, or else the bumbling fools that More and the bishops employed would have had greater success. He supposed that it made sense. The external threats either made for a very thoughtful, free, secretive heretic or a dumb captive waiting their turn at the stake. Though he did imagine, that like other doubtful ventures, spies and informers played their parts in foiling clever plans.

  Surprise and shock didn’t even come close to describing what he felt when it was revealed that alewife and hostess, Mistress Emma, actually ran one of the more successful networks of informers that kept the Lutherans and heretics apprised of the many schemes for their demise and capture. But when he came to consider the audacity of the idea, it just seemed to make so much sense. After all who would notice them? They were just everywhere, on the streets, by the river, the city was teeming with them, but to harness them like this took a special kind of cunning. After all who’d consider children anything other than an annoyance?

  ***

  Chapter 15. Ambush at Crooked Lane, London, Morning, 8th June

  Ned muttered unhappily to himself as he strode down Candlewick Street towards Eastcheap. This morning’s meeting was a complete waste of time and effort. Damn Uncle Richard! Why was it always so insufferably stuffy, predictable and demeaning? First would be the usual brusque summons to come to his room where Ned would stand in brooding impatient silence until Uncle Richard made a show of slowly reading through the articles prepared by his clerks. Then after the longest of waits, he would note, with a slight sniff of disapproval, the presence of his nephew. Ned had learned early on, that visible displays of anger or rancour at the humiliating treatment only made the interviews longer and the resultant punishment more painful. Thus he’d finally learned to choke down the rage engendered by the older man’s disdainful behaviour.

  If Ned had any choice, he would have been out of the house by now. It wasn’t that he disliked his young, toddling cousins or his aunt—he did have some familial loyalty. It was his uncle, Master Richard Rich, who had made it extremely apparent that Ned’s upbringing and supervision was only endured out of affection for a dead sister. As for Ned’s taint of bastardry, Uncle Richard regarded that as a very personal slur.

  At the end of last year Ned had a brief chance to flee the restricting bonds. The success of the Cardinal’s Angels had given him a measure of financial freedom, and the ability to imitate the style of a gentleman. However at the pinnacle of success he had been forced to accept the shackles of patronage from Thomas Cromwell. His new master had then displayed his true depth of cunning. Ned’s appointed supervisor was a good friend of Cromwell’s, none other than his old college at the Inns of Court, Master Richard Rich, the recent autumn reader at Middle Temple Inn. Thus freedom had proved an illusion.

  As he walked along Ned stewed over the interview. His dearest uncle had patiently listened to his report on the Hanse murders, which was, admittedly, still brief and inconclusive, as well as his initial suspicions on the Queen’s plot. In between he’d considerably edited out Meg Black’s more illicit business problems. It was certainly neither necessary or desirable for Uncle Richard to have any of that knowledge! He had a healthy respect for his uncle’s ability to scent out advantage from any rumour or gossip as per the grain scandal. Not that it mattered. For all that careful effort, his uncle just huffed a little, and with a facetiously smiling face, the one he kept for particularly unfortunate clients, remarked that he had heard this all before, then dismissed it as completely irrelevant.

  And what was it that was the most galling to Ned? It would have to be that he knew, he just knew that Uncle Richard, even now, was making an almost word perfect transcript of the interview. After this he’d make one or two modifications and with the addition of a few of his ‘suggestions’, it would be in the hands of Councillor Cromwell before this day was out. And those suggestions would be so skilfully worded that any resultant success would be shared with his uncle, while any ensuing disasters would be his alone. As for assistance, well Judgement Day would come sooner. This was just the kind of occasion that had Ned fuming over the wilful blindness and bland superiority of his elders.

  The only consolation lay in the memory
of the previous night’s feast. The food had been… Ahh, words were not sufficient to describe the explosion of tastes of venison, braised with wine and juniper berries, and served with baked honeyed parsnip tarts. That superb repast had helped wash away the sour tang of his trouncing at the hands of the arch deceiver, Meg Black. If really pushed and put to the question, he may grudgingly concede that her plan was adequate, but no more than that. He was, it must be admitted, still angry that he hadn’t been hitherto informed of the existence of such a useful set of spies. Considering some of the things Cromwell had him delving into over the past six months, eyes and ears like those could have been very useful.

  Well he could play that game too. He’d collared Rob towards the end of the feast while the arch trickster was elsewhere, and convinced him that it was of the utmost necessity to go over the vessel from one end to the other and top to bottom, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Ned also suggested that it’d be useful to have his sister along, just to help point out those useful hidey holes she seemed to know so thoroughly. He’d had a few wicked thoughts about that—when it came to the foul and noisome space that the sailor’s called the bilge, he’d see how superior she felt then.

  For the final member of their company Ned had a task that he felt really fit the talents of Gruesome Roger. At the powder mill he’d been given the name of a gentleman of dubious business practices, who when paid a sufficient amount, could find them the fifty promised barrels of powder. It was no surprise to discover that the fellow resided at a disreputable portion of the Liberties of Southwark. So Roger was tasked with some reconnaissance and was then to see Captaine Gryne regarding any whisperings of kidnapping or ransom.