The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Since the visit up Crane River yesterday, Ned was even more certain that Master Robinson’s disappearance was linked in some way to the illicit powder trade. Too much of what Sir Welkin claimed and Master Lyttlefield said didn’t add up. For one thing the concept that so many barrels of powder had been ordered and already paid for was just not in the realms of reality. Royal payments took weeks at the speediest, months usually, and occasionally years, so to pay for them up front with ready coin of the realm? Not even a village fool would do that before each barrel was checked and inspected and weighed. Unless of course there was an urgent need. There were no foreign wars with anyone at present, not even with the hairy legged Scots.

  As a consequence of his introspection he was almost entangled in the growing fracas near Eastcheap. Damn! Ned backed up a few strides and tried to look over the growing scrimmage. Two carters were engaged in some sort of dispute and had blocked the road. As a consequence all the other traffic had piled up behind them and of course, not to miss out on a free show, the local citizens had joined in swelling the congestion. As a route to the wharf this wasn’t going to work. A number of the more enterprising purveyors of food and drink had even set up to take advantage of the sudden opportunity. Things were in a poor state in the city—the bells of St Paul’s had not yet rung out the full ten of the clock chimes and the roads were already blocked. Shaking his head in bemusement at the antics of Londoners, Ned cut south down the closest side alley toward St Michael’s Lane.

  As a bypass it should have worked, but at the end of the alley he was brought short by another problem. This time a wagon had dropped its wheel. No doubt the retaining pin was shaken loose by the potholed road. Not wanting to be caught up in yet another delay, Ned turned down the first side entrance that dove towards Crooked Lane. The Mayor and his council really needed to sort out the traffic in the city. At any give time during the daylight hours, you could guarantee being trapped in at least one blockage.

  It was even worse now that the city was packed for the Trinity law term and the King’s summons. Just last week it had taken him almost three hours to cross from Westminster to Aldgate, and most of that was back tracking to avoid the chaos of collisions and arguments. At the time he’d even seriously considered revisiting his expedient of last year, hiring a horse at Charing Cross and riding around the city. If these jams continued, it would almost be worth completing a separate road that cut around the northern walls.

  In the first instant it was luck that saved his life. Between one step down the narrow alley and the next a sudden roar of thunder filled the space. Startled, Ned stopped abruptly. Instinct didn’t worry about the lack of dark clouds or flash of lightening and saved him from the second shot, dropping his body onto the mucky cobbles just in time to avoid the splintering crash that shattered the timber wall were his head had formerly been. A suppressed part of his mind worried about the state of his doublet, waspishly reminding him that he only had a single dress one left, but the sheer act of survival choked it to silence. Someone was trying to kill him! His daemon sniped waspishly that after escaping the fire aboard the ship and the machinations of Richmond Palace, he should be getting used to this.

  Ned had dropped down next to the very full gutter and peering up, he looked about for the tell tale cloud of smoke. He didn’t need the technical skills of Rob Black to tell him that he was being shot at by a couple of harquebus. The smashed wall and the roar had been enough. Then far too soon he caught the flash and bellow of another shot. This one pulverised the cobblestone a finger’s breadth from his shoulder. That was sufficient incentive! Leaping to his feet, he sprinted down the alley, and dove beneath what he hopped was a sheltering doorway. The loud bark and snap of another shot cracking through the timber post soon convinced him of his error.

  This wasn’t right! Ned had undergone a little training with such weapons. The ordinances of the King still trumpeted the traditional use of the longbow, but despite the power and authority of Royal proclamation, it didn’t stop gentlemen from trying the new methods of war. Novelty alone guaranteed that. He heard a few portly so called veterans claim it was a dishonourable form of combat, lacking in the manly virtues and only used by skulking cowards and trembling varlets. Ned really didn’t see the difference between slaying a man with an arrow or a lead missile—either way they were dead. The scepticism of professionals had soon evaporated when the landsknechts of Emperor Charles used the disgraceful weapon at Pavia to kill French knights by the hundred. After such a significant success it naturally acquired the keen interest of any sensible Englishman.

  From experience gained during his fumbling practice sessions, a source of much merriment to the idle watchers, Ned had noted that a shot a minute was the best that could be expected from a veteran. After dropping the ramrod, spilling the priming powder and having to spark up the slow match, groping for the lead ball in his pouch, speed was a distant dream. So if that was to be expected, how could you explain this conundrum? If fear wasn’t making him misjudge the time, these weapons were firing at a much faster rate, possibly three or four shots a minute each and that was impossible!

  It was now that both Ned’s shoulder daemon and angel joined forces to give him an imaginary boot to the buttocks—this was so obviously an ambush! Just like in a hunt where beaters drove the quarry forward towards the waiting hunters, so they had driven him with coincidentally stalled carts and blockades. Ned didn’t need to risk a sprint down the alley to know that it was already blocked. That was the instinctive reaction his ambushers were waiting for. The timber door beside him split from the impact of another shot, sending a spray of splinters to further puncture his doublet. A warm trickle of blood reminded him of his limited time and vanishing options, and he squeezed further into the shrinking cover. One option was to batter on the doors in the no doubt vain hope of help. His daemon gave a hollow laugh at that one, reminding him what ‘ambush’ meant. Whoever had set this up had ensured that none in this lane would interfere.

  Ned rubbed his face nervously while his heart beat a steady tattoo of fear inside his chest. His sword and dagger were of little use here. According to Rob, a set of half armour was said to be mostly shot proof. However, unlike that idiot Sir Roderick Belsom, one didn’t usually walk down London streets a clanking. Anyway it was good as wishing for the moon. At close range it would only give him a false sense of security while slowing him for a veritable cascade of shots. As for sprinting for the cart, his daemon reckoned that was a shortcut to Judgement Day.

  It was at this point that, as a cornered rat, desperation led to inspiration. In all likelihood it would prove fatal, but he was no less dead if he stayed put in the doorway. At the echoing bark of the next shot, Ned jumped up as it splattered into the ground by his foot, and in a leaping stride, made the other side of the alley and upwards, his fingers scraping a window lintel. Shedding fingernails he knew were going to hurt later, he began to clamber up the wall, gripping projected beams and mullions. One ball ripped through his loose doublet and the flash of it passing scorched his ribs, spurring him to further frantic efforts. His sword endeavoured to slow his progress by entangling his legs or catching on the old timbers. He correctly ignored the temptation to pause and unbuckle it—a still target was an easy target. As well, he was loath the loose the only weapons in his possession. There was too much risk in that. So despite encumbrances he clawed up the wall.

  One level done—two more and he would be on the thatching of the roof! Luckily his ambushers had picked a street with few overhanging levels. The walls here were almost vertical with that slightly drunken lean so typical of city buildings.

  Ned had figured that the hunters were each side of the alley, probably in the upper storeys. So if he couldn’t go down the lane, then he would go over it. At the very least, that’d cut down the numbers firing at him. As Ned struggled to hold on to the rotten timbers of a third level sill, he heard the commotion below in the street. His unexpected solution seemed to have upset his ambushers.
After a loud crash, two men burst onto the alley. Ned risked a perilous glimpse over his shoulder at the sound and what he saw sent chills up his spine, and despite the pain, his fingers gripped their purchase that much harder.

  Below him one of the assailants had the expected weapon. However it was unlike any common harquebus he had seen. Firstly it was shorter in length, and what was really concerning and damned unfair, was that the owner didn’t need to go through the laborious process of loading that Ned had so embarrassingly tried. No, instead he just flipped out a chamber in the breech and inserted a new one, handed across by his companion, a tall fellow with a flashy peacock feathered cap.

  And here was Ned, invitingly exposed less than an arm’s length from the shelter of the roof, while the fellow below could leisurely line up his shot. No use waiting around. With a very brief prayer to his guardian saint, he took a chance and pushing straining, aching muscles, swung up. In mid flight Ned heard the whoosh of the priming pan ignite and every instant expected the savage tearing of the ball. No! Somehow he made it un–slain and pulled himself up the steep pitched slope away from the view of the pair in the street. Catching a quick lungful of air, he heard the echo of cursed invective from the below and gave a grim smile. Rob Black would be very amused. The limits of modern technology had saved him—the touch hole from the priming pan was fouled.

  Making the most of his opportunity, he climbed to the ridge and followed the irregular roofline. He had several minutes at least before any real pursuit. At this moment Ned was very glad that Londoners universally ignored the building statutes. It made his passage much easier, jumping from one roof to another until he emerged four lanes and several irate inhabitants away, before dropping back to the street level.

  Leaning against a stone wall south of Crooked Lane, he suppressed the trembling that shook his limbs. His best gamble was to cut down to the river and grab a wherry. Considering what had just happened, he needed to get to Smarts Key wharf as fast as possible. Though the question was, were they trying to kill him for what he had done, or because of Meg Black’s not so hidden affairs?

  ***

  Chapter 16. A Dangerous Discovery, The Ruyter, Mid morning, 8th June

  In Ned’s life the natural pattern of events never quite matched his attempt to establish the order or precedence he desired. For instance on reaching Smarts Key Wharf, the first person he saw wasn’t the sought for Rob Black. Instead fate decreed that it was to be his sister in her guise of the apothecary and amateur surgeon. After the briefest flicker of a frown from the Mistress of the vessel at his disreputable appearance, Ned found himself dragged into the ship master’s cabin and held down firmly by one of Gryne’s men. His minor wounds were then poked, prodded, pinched, plucked and finally salved with the most eye wateringly painful ointment he had ever had the misfortune to come across. Though it was passingly tender when compared with her removal of the splinters! It was an experience he hoped never to repeat. Damn, why couldn’t she apply to be a barber surgeon? Then at least she’d have a few more victims to practice on.

  With a muttered thanks Ned escaped before Mistress Black decided to continue her ministrations. Luckily though, by this time, she had eyed the grubby bandage on the wrist of one of Gryne’s men, and was suitably distracted. Back on the deck he came upon a member of the crew involved in an intricate operation on one of the ropes coming off the middle mast, and gained directions to Rob’s present location, down in the hold, a level or so under the shipmaster’s cabin at the rear.

  His friend was occupied pulling off panels of timber with an iron bar from what Ned thought was the inner side of the vessels stern. He didn’t know much about ships but he had this worrying suspicion that if Rob Black continued, the brown waters of the Thames may flood in putting an end to all their worries.

  “Won’t we sink if you do that?” He tried to make it a casual question, but the quaver of concern was nonetheless present.

  His friend continued to pull off a distressingly large plank, but so far no spurt of river. “You’d think so wouldn’t you Ned? This morning I recalled a talk with Albrecht last year about smuggling, and along with some advice from the steersman Wilhelm regarding some of the tricks in common usage, so I thought to put his words to the test.”

  “You mean he revealed all the smuggling caches?” Ned was incredulous. He thought that it would take a great deal more leverage to get the Hanse to give forth on trade secrets and he’d never found Albrecht that forthcoming. He knew Meg trusted him, but then she was a woman and they were known to be unpredictable and impulsive.

  Rob just shrugged and continued his work with the iron bar. “He told me of the more easily found ones…Arrh…then hinted at a couple of others that….that may have been used. Albrecht didn’t mention this area at all! When I’d…crawled all over the ship…I thought that if I really wanted to hide cargo where would I put it? So here we…Arrrrh!”

  Ned bent down and helped pull the last planks aside. The joint effort revealed a cavity large enough for two dozen medium sized barrels. Which of course was full! Ned picked up the nearby lantern and swung it closer for a better view. So much for trust between business partners! Rob’s hand shot out, grabbing and yanked him back before he could peer into the dark space.

  “What!” It was an angry cry filled with offence and Ned was making no apologies. Rob had just slammed his bandaged side into a post.

  His friend took the lantern from his hand and dragged him several paces back. “Ned, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” Rob spoke firmly and quietly but it made no difference. Ned was getting very tired of being pulled or poked by the highhanded siblings of the Black clan.

  “Damn you Rob! Why not? We’ve got to find out what’s going on!”

  “Because, Red Ned Bedwell, those barrels in there have the King’s mark on them.”

  Ned wasn’t in a mood to take this. “So? It’s an evil time we live in! Everyone steals and smuggles, the King’s goods included!”

  Rob still held him firmly against the post despite his struggles and whispered close to his ear. “These Ned are different. They bear the mark of the King’s powder.”

  A sudden chill clambered its way up the ladder of his spine. Damn that powder of devil’s fire! The stuff had the most pernicious habit of turning up where it would cause the most mayhem. Ned carefully put down the lantern, hoping its flickering flame was well enough away from the dangerous powder.

  “Ohh…of course. I see. Ahh, anything else unexpected?” Ned’s hands felt suddenly very sweaty. The day was not going well. He just hoped that this was the last of the surprises, and well may he wish that his daemon added sourly.

  “Yes, yes there is—in the forward hold.” Rob led him past the stacked cargo to another hidey hole. Obviously this one didn’t hold any of the explosive powder since Rob hung the lantern over the opened panelling and rummaged around, pulling out a number of heavy, oiled, cloth–wrapped objects. He pulled back the cloths with a flourish. Well no doubt they were enmeshed in illicit smuggling now. Church law was very firm on heretical books, but the King’s law was also unambiguous on the trading in weapons. In Rob’s hands was a very fine selection of armour piercing axes.

  As dry as Ned’s mouth felt at this sight, his hands were bathed in moisture. “Rob, do you know where this ship was to go after Bristol?”

  The young artificer gave a nod and rewrapped the axes. “Yes, Ireland.”

  Oh no, thought Ned. Now they had two fates to avoid. The King’s Majesty did not take well to supplying weapons to his sometime disloyal subjects amongst the wild Irish. In fact he frowned very severely on the practice. Malefactors tended to make nodding acquaintance with the hemp noose at Tynburn or Tower Hill scaffolds. Ned swallowed with a desert dry throat. What could be worse?

  “They’re pretty good too and most have the Tower mark.”

  Alright, that’s what could be worse! Theft from the Royal Armoury to sell to the Irish was treason, pure and simple. Thus spectre of being hung dr
awn and quartered overshadowed that of being burnt at the stake or hung. Ned may have felt unsettled and nervous after the ambush but this combination of weapons and black powder made his hair stand on end. “By Christ’s blood, Rob! Can…can you get them off the ship?”

  His friend considered the question for a moment before sadly shaking his head. “Not with so many watching, not with over two gross of weapons including bills and halberds to move, let alone the armour. Not a chance.”

  Another problem to deal with. Great! As if he didn’t have enough already and now it got worse. Ned tried to speak but his tongue froze over the number of weapons, two gross that was almost three hundred arms. “Ahh, two gross of weapons?”

  “Yes and fifty sets of foot men’s Almain rivet,” Rob added helpfully.

  Armour? Fifty sets? Ned wasn’t the most martial of gentlemen. He didn’t pester old veterans for stories of skirmish, battles and sieges, well no more than any young lad with aspirations. However he did know enough about the Art of War to recognise that this was enough to outfit a large number of men in all the modern apparel of war.

  “Could we claim these and the powder for the ship’s defence?” This was a desperate gambit and Ned knew his voice sounded squeaky and falsetto with apprehension.

  “I doubt it Ned. It’s more like the equipment needed to arm two hundred or so men. As for the powder, well this vessel only has six small Gonnes, and that’s several, several times more than they would ever need.”