The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Oh well, another vain hope dead before its time, but now Ned’s daemon was whispering another suspicion into his ear. “Rob, did you find these in areas suggested by Albrecht?”

  Once again his friend shook his head. “No. Most of this wasn’t hidden that well. Strange that.”

  It was unfortunately predicable. Ned was beginning to wonder exactly who suggested to Mistress Black that what any merchant’s daughter on the rise and purveyor of heretical books needed was her own ship. Somehow he suspected it was Albrecht Hagan, whispering from the curtains with ready ledgers at hand. In this mind set of suspicion, Ned’s daemon also came up the next question. “Do you think that Meg knows of this?”

  This was a very dangerous consideration. Her brother didn’t even need to pause before replying. “No, not at all. She showed me all the caches that she used and anyway, for this quality of weaponry you’d need to know an official high up at the Tower. It just isn’t Meg. I have to push her to carry more than a surgeon’s knife.”

  As an indication of the sort of moral degradation his legal training had caused, a suspicion of linking the disappearance of Ben Robinson, this discovery and Margaret Black flashed through his imagination, before being crushed firmly under foot. Damn that inquisitiveness. It could be really corrosive to a person’s soul and this time he couldn’t blame his daemon.

  If not the apprentice apothecary and suspected heretic then that left only two suspects—Albrecht and Joachim. Said to be boon friends and companions who also smuggled bibles and, ahem, concealed gonne powder. According to Rob the vessel was perfectly set up for running illicit trade, and the Irish could be expected to pay generously for modern weaponry to be used in their inter–family disputes. But if the texts were so well hidden, why be sloppy with the weapons? A tide waiter or land waiter could be bribed to ignore many things. Not weapons though. That smacked heavily of treason and a man had few defences against such a charge.

  Ned made a mental note to have a very frank talk with Albrecht when this was over. He also wondered, considering the packed contraband, what space had been left for the legitimate cargo. “Rob, who do you think arranged the hidden powder?”

  His friend frowned as he replaced the wrapped weapons. “As you saw, it was behind a very clever false wall. That would be a lot of work and expense.”

  “Joachim perhaps or Albrecht?”

  “I’m not sure Ned, to tell the truth. The ship master could commission it, but then so could the cargo agent.”

  That left one dead and silenced and the other alive and suspect. To Ned, the odds of pinning down the slippery Albrecht weren’t ones he’d place a groat upon.

  “Do any of the crew know of your discoveries?”

  “No. Meg set them to repairing the rigging and repainting the ship.”

  He gave a brief prayer of thanks for their diverted attention. “Excellent. Can you hide all this again, somewhere different?”

  His companion paused in thought and sadly shook his head. “Ned, all the common places have been used. I don’t think so.”

  This was exasperating. He had a ship that’d been rigged for smuggling, every crevice and hidey hole of which was packed to the brim and it wasn’t even his cargo. “All right, since I own half of this damn boat build some more. I don’t care how or where, so long as the crew don’t know and a casual search can’t find them.”

  Rob leant against the solid oak beam and pinched thoughtfully at his chin. Finally after a couple of minutes pause he slowly nodded. “It… it can be done Ned, but it’ll cost. We need skilled craftsmen and the parts smuggled in. Emma’s lad Mathew, at the cartwrights, should be able to help and I’ll put it around that we’re repairing from the fire.”

  “Fine, whatever it takes.” Ned would have quailed at the rapidly mounting cost, except for the also rapidly escalating crisis. He waved consideration of mere gold aside, even if his daemon quailed in horror as a result. “Rob, being killed always trumps being in debt. Anyway we’ve got worse problems than contraband.”

  The large artificer gave a disbelieving snort and shook his head, so Ned launched into the story of his morning ambush, and all went well until the section concerning his escape over the roof. Rob Black stopped it there, getting Ned to give a fuller description of what happened in the alley. Then Rob pulled his lip pensively, before drawing Ned cautiously towards the bow. The artificer passed Ned the lantern then ferreting around in yet another secret hole by the charred section. And lo and behold, like a market fair mummer, Rob conjured from the shadows a small flat box the length of his forearm

  “That weapon they used was a sort of harquebus as you said.” Rob once more pulled at his lip in thought and shook his head. “Four shots in under a minute—not a common weapon that. I’d say it’s a very special harquebus, with replaceable breech chambers and that quality of craftsmanship is pricy. Only a lord could afford it and since there were two, he’d have to be fairly dripping in gold. Tell me, did they look like these?”

  Rob flicked the catch opening the box. Inside was revealed a pair of beautiful small harquebus a foot long, but with a completely different firing mechanism to the one he had fired in training. There was the small clamp on an arm, but rather than hold a match, it had a small metallic looking rock in its jaws. And that wasn’t all. Under this jaw was a disc a couple of inches across, set into the lock and trigger plate.

  “Why yes! The weapon I saw had this device instead of the matchlock!”

  “I thought so. For a breech loading harquebus with this device, the price just doubled.” Rob hefted one of the small ‘Gonnes’ in his hand, picked up a lever a hand span long, fitted the square slotted end over a projecting spur in the centre of the disc and then turned it like a crank once until it clicked, before replacing it.

  “This is called a pistol, with a wheel lock firing mechanism. Very modern—I’ve only seen a few. According to Uncle Jonathon, they’re made by the best artificers from the German lands.” Rob held the smaller weapon appreciatively, with due care fiddling with the complex looking mechanism.

  “What you do is this.” So saying, he held out the weapon and pulled the trigger. This set the disc to spinning, then the jaw dropped and a shower of sparks flew into the recessed priming pan.

  Ned was extremely impressed. It didn’t take much practice with the harquebus to see its limitations. Well for one thing rain and dampness tended to put out the slow match. Rob handed him the other weapon from the box and took him through the sequence several times. It really was very easy to use, less complicated than juggling the intricate manoeuvres of the long harquebus.

  Now he had a name, he recalled there’d been envious talk about these weapons at the Inns of Court. Pistols were said to be all the rage across the channel and in a fight gave a man that extra edge. And, as always happened whenever a new piece of weaponry became available, some voice the claim that the use of such was hardly the act of an honourable gentleman.. There were also complaints that small, dangerous harquebus made it easier for brigands and rebels to threaten their betters. Of course, such a portable concealable weapon created its own problems. Emperor Charles had banned them in his territories, though not with any appreciable effect so far.

  Rob gave the weapons a closer inspection after their trial, before handing them back to a curious Ned. “Good, these have the Augsburg mark and should be reliable. Now you load as you would an harquebus, but the range is only good for ten paces, and before you fire, you have to wind the spring with the lever. Now both could fit under your doublet, tucked in your belt. That’ll give you two shots.”

  Ned looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. “Why should I need them? Aren’t they after Meg?”

  Oh Damn! Ned hadn’t meant that to slip out, but Rob just smiled grimly and shook his head. “From what I’ve seen, Meg, no.”

  “The ship may be?”

  “But you...yes.”

  Ned swallowed nervously as the implications of his misconceptions hit home. Rob could be
right. Now he wondered if he’d at least have a chance to practice with the new pistols before he needed to use them. The gift gave his confidence a boost though it still left the question of who was after him and why?

  ***

  Chapter 17. Westminster and Old Friends, Westminster Palace, Afternoon, 8th June

  Further speculation on the new found contraband was brought to an abrupt halt by a summons from the deck above. A messenger had called for Ned. Before ascending, Rob helped him adjust the two pistols so that they caused the least discomfort and shoved the small powder canister and bag of shot into his belt pouch.

  Finally straightening his doublet, he climbed up into the light. Damn, it was barely worth the effort, for on the deck leaning insolently against the ships rail was Ralph Sadleyer’s arrogant snot of an usher from Westminster. “About time Bedwell. I’ve had to tramp all over the city looking for you”

  It was in that snorting, sneering drawl perfected by courtiers that set a man’s teeth on edge and made one instinctively reach for a cudgel. Instead Ned gave as deep a bow as he would to a lord. This man was close to Cromwell and flattery was essential. His courtesy was accepted with a fluttering wave of a ringed hand. “You are commanded to attend the Star Chamber at Westminster before the midday chimes.”

  Ned suppressed a chill. The Court of the Star Chamber had a chancy reputation as the place that Wolsey used to break and humiliate his opponents. Ned tried to maintain a calm demeanour as he returned courtesies for the message, even to paying over four shillings for the delivery. Not that his generosity was accepted with anything more that a disdainful grimace from the departing usher.

  Thus since his ‘good lord’ called, any other matters must go hang. Ned would have cursed Cromwell if he thought it was any use, but what could not be cured must be endured. And once again with no time to change into more suitable dress—it was almost as if he needed to keep a spare set of court finery on hand at all times. Even so the cost in tailor’s fees for this week’s damage alone would run towards five gold angels, and after that he’d still need another set of finery within the month. The saints knew how courtiers afforded the expense, though he supposed that was one reason for such extensive bribery. They needed some way to keep decent clothes on their backs.

  Bearing Rob’s recent warning in mind, he grabbed four of Gryne’s men as a safeguard and after leaving a few suggestions with his friend, hailed a passing wherry heading up river. He deliberately left without bidding Mistress Black farewell. After all she didn’t confide in him about all of her affairs, did she? Anyway he had a sneaking suspicion that Meg Black, would–be surgeon, had enjoyed her last session a bit too much. It had been particularly painful as those splinters were removed.

  Ned stood in one of the ante chambers waiting. He seemed to spend his life at Westminster waiting. Damn! He’d even paid the wherry men double to speed them here. The slack tide at the bridge had meant a faster and safer passage. A whole shilling wasted!

  Once here he’d slumped against the timber panelling, watching the afternoon crawl by. At least he thanked the saints he’d had the foresight to relieve himself at Westminster Stairs. Otherwise the discomfort would have been excruciating. Others hadn’t been so prudent. There was a distinct whiff of stale urine from the fireplace over to the left, as overpowering as being next to the Fleete Ditch. His retinue had been refused entry by one of the palace guards and Ned had to come up with drinking money in order to keep them relatively close. More damned expense.

  Finally one of the doors to the ominous chamber opened. Ned straightened up, brushing specks of London dirt from his doublet, and took up his best court stance, leg forward and cap in hand. His boredom was over at last.

  And then he wished for its return—desperately.

  The gentleman walking out was large fellow in that tall, rangy manner of the northerners. He had a black beard, thick enough to hide a badger in and it still seemed to claw its way up his face as if seeking to hide under the red velvet cap. The clothes however had improved—it was a burgundy brocade that Ned’s old ‘friend’, Skelton, now affected. “Red Ned Bedwell, I’ve bin alookin’ fo’ yea!”

  Now wasn’t that a forebodingly familiar refrain. He could have pulled out the pistols, but using a weapon like those in the King’s palace was a dangerous action to explain, and sprinting back to his guard was out of the question, even more so when Skelton, his nemesis of last year, was followed by several retainers. Each of these had that similar look of men who could claim kinship with the bare kneed Scots and armed, like him, with heavy bladed backswords. So instead Ned chose one of his practiced court bows. He was getting good at those.

  “Nay Ned lad. Nay need fo’ so much formality. We’re auld friends.” That coarse cry was accompanied by a heavy handed buffet to his shoulder, as if from a long lost cousin.

  A tight smile played about Ned’s lips. He wasn’t dead yet. Nor had anyone drawn a blade on him, so his only option was to play this out. “I bid you a good day, Master Skelton.”

  The northerner, in the service of the Duke of Norfolk, gave a braying laugh in reply. “Ahh Ned, I said nay so formal. Let’s yea an me go fo’ a drink. The lad’s here’ll just tag along. They’ve nay been ta the city an al’ the folk ‘ere make’m a tad twitchy.”

  Ned may have tried to shake off the hand firmly grasping his shoulder, but a brief glance at the said nervous retainers dispelled any such foolishness. From their universal glowers, hacking apart a Londoner would brighten up their day no end.

  Ned found himself steered towards one of the livery kitchens that served the palace, where a couple of the dour retainers peeled off to fetch some sustenance. He hoped at least it was cooked properly, rather than briefly waved over a candle as he suspected they did up north. All the while Skelton chatted on about the glorious weather and the prospects for hunting this season. Ned kept up his part of the conversation with short simple answers, curious as to why the northerner wanted to play the amiable companion, rather than throw him in the river. Or slit his throat.

  In due course the retainers returned laden with loaves of manchet bread, smoked capons and some leather bottles of ale, then they adjourned through a small door set into the wall of the palace and entered an enclosed garden where Skelton took a seat on a stone bench and pulled Ned down beside him. His companions, however, set themselves in a circle warily facing out, hands prominently on hilts.

  “Well lad ‘ere we’re a’ pleasant a place fo’ a reunion as yea could find.”

  Ned gave a brief nod before taking a large slurp of the ale—not bad, almost as good as the Bee Skep’s. He’d also made a careful note of Skelton’s accustomed and easy use of the palace. Such a casual approach spoke volumes. Norfolk must be riding high in the Privy Council, his rivals quelled or bought. The other item Ned was berating himself for, was the fact that he had forgotten to ask that snotty usher exactly who’d summoned him to the Star Chamber. That was a dangerous slip.

  “So Ned, life’s been treating you well serving Cromwell?” It may have looked like one, but it was not a question, certainly not from the hungry look in Skelton’s eye.

  Ned suppressed any but the most courtly reaction while he pondered a very pressing question. Did Skelton really know what happened at the Cosgrove Inn privy? If so, how long did Ned have to live? His hands where full of food and drink, so making a grab for a weapon would be an act of suicide. Ned gave a non committal shrug before answering. “He is my good lord, as Norfolk is yours, as generous and fair as one could ask for.”

  Skelton ran a hand through his thick beard. Ned was surprised not to see creatures leaping out to escape the fingered comb. His daemon suggested they’d already sort refuge in the northerner’s shirt. No doubt that shielded a veritable thicket of chest hair to scurry through and lice to frolic with. “Aye. That’s as maybe. ‘ave yea ever wondered if another could be mure generous an’ nay doubt mure noble than a smith’s lad? The scraps fro’ his table must be leaner than a dog’s leavings
. A man o’ means would nay go far on those.”

  Ned smiled. Of course, the expected offers of betrayal for advancement. It was slow week when he didn’t receive at least one bribe for information or advantage. This was a sad fact of life in these evil times. Betrayal and trust were so finely balanced and the devil’s minions were always at one’s shoulder, whispering temptation. That being so, to receive one from the man who was in truth second in the land after the king, that was…unexpected, and the next question was why? It was well known that Norfolk disliked Cromwell for his common background, though not as much as Suffolk did, and it would be nowhere near the loathing that both Dukes felt for the butcher’s son from Ipswich, the disgraced former chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. Not surprising since the Howards considered their bloodline as the most noble in the kingdom. If that was the case then why court Ned Bedwell the bastard? Was it his obvious talents? While Ned thought a bit of himself, as did any young man, he wasn’t so overborne by arrogance and puffed up pride as to believe the mighty of the land accounted him worthy of friendship.

  Perhaps it was Cromwell? Did Norfolk see the new Privy Councillor as a threat and need a spy? Thank the saints he wasn’t as deeply entangled in his master’s plans as he could have been. That’d be far too perilous. At other times the offer may have been tempting. After all any prudent man took precautions in these doubtful times where Satan’s words soothed and cajoled men to ready treachery. His good lord, Thomas Cromwell, was beginning his ascent on the Wheel of Fortuna. But once at the pinnacle, all hands would be trying to pull him back down, and Ned had seen last year what happened to the luckless follower who hadn’t made any provision for that unseen future.

  His daemon whispered advantages, reminding him that the bonds and dues of friendship could easily be broken—for the right price. However his angel counselled him that betrayal would cast the Black siblings into the abyss and his soul quailed at the price. Sometimes advancement wore the same doublet as betrayal. Now if he possessed the flexible equivocation of his Uncle Richard, it may have been easier. No, he was himself, a man alone and his better nature would never condone such an act. Anyway it was not as if he could trust Norfolk in the first place.