Ned picked up one of the culprits of his shame and looked at it. Instead of the rippled skin, in its place he saw a triumphant Meg Black, thumbing her nose at him. This was supposed to be a gift? An insult more like! Well if that was to be how it was, then Ned could be equally as highhanded. In fit of anger he clenched his fist and the orange ball exploded into pulpy shards that dripped across the scrubbed table.
Not the most tactful of action from the frown now gracing Mistress Emma’s brow. Ned guiltily looked down at the mess his anger had created. In an attempt to restore his dignity, he began to pick up the pieces, then stopped in surprise, his hand still leaking the sticky fluid.
It really wasn’t possible, was it? Could it be that simple? Was the rooting out of treason and conspiracy that prone to the hand of Providence? Ned mused as he held the pulped fruit, looking at a piece of it that he knew for certain wasn’t part of the Lord’s ordained order for the composition of the tartly bitter fruit.
It was a small cylinder about as long as his finger and it looked like waxed parchment. Ignoring the growl of disapproval from Mistress Emma, he dropped the rest of the pulped fruit on the table, pulled free the strange object and held it thoughtfully in his hands. Emma, now curious came over to view his find. Ned pulled out his dagger and trimmed off the wax sealing the top and ran the fine tip along the edge to uncover the tightly wrapped tube of parchment. Was this what they were doing in the Queen’s chamber with all those oranges? But why?
Emma moved a couple of platters and bowls out of the way and Ned carefully unrolled the parchment scrap on the table. For an instant he was returned to that revealing moment in Albrecht’s store room when the cascade of golden coins spilled out of the broken candle. It had changed all their fates and transformed them from accused traitors to loyal subjects of the King saving them from a dire fate on Tower Hill.
This was another matter. Whoever had penned this had a reasonable command of English, but the style was so odd and peculiar. The words themselves were simple enough if cryptic.
the loRd’s day wIll SeE hellfire ReIgn On the unrighTeous.
Ned tapped his blade idly on the table in thought, trying to work through the message. Was it in a cipher like the Cardinal’s letters? Or was this just a part of a longer message? It appeared that Mistress Emma had already visited that idea for she was busily removing the fruit from its basket and had begun to cut them carefully. A few minutes dissection proved that the message cylinder was without siblings. So puzzling! But what did that mean? Well in theory one message per basket and presumably one basket to whomever? He thought once more on the affair of last year. That had seen messages secreted in ordinary words. Dr Caerleon had said that some ciphers were supposed to be fiendishly complex, involving counter codes and tables. But somehow that didn’t seem correct. This wasn’t a message from a spy to their master. Instead, Ned thought it appeared more a call or reminder for action and if anything else was needed, it had to be already in the statement. At his request, Emma fetched quill, ink and parchment and Ned began his labours over the script.
The rest of the kitchen flowed around him as he sat in his bubble of concentration. Ned tried several simple word ciphers, combinations all the first letters then the second letters, but each method just came out a jumble. Then on the cusp of frustration, he remembered that the easiest code models changed the letters. With another inspection of the message he noticed the occasional irregular use of a Capital letter in some of the words. Ned spelt them out on the parchment and leant back to view the results. Simple. It was almost right out in the open for anyone to read—what arrogance.
RISE RIOT.
Or not! Those damning words were dread injunctions to upset the natural order of the kingdom and the merest whiff was enough to have a hundred dancing the slow hemp jig from the gibbet as a precaution. For gentry it was an instant trip to the Tower and if they were favoured, the headsman’s axe, if not, the traditional gruesome fate of traitors. Ned’s hand trembled at what he had penned.
That Queen Katherine and her clique would stoop to raising the red hand of rebellion against her natural and sovereign lord was inconceivable. It broke every tenant of his schooling and Church instilled morality, no matter that the priest was known by all to have a secret wife and his school masters had, for the most part, been dissembling fools. But those errors and human flaws were irrelevant. What they’d thundered most voraciously was the obedience due to God, to the Church and to the King’s Majesty. It was the glue that bound the duties and reciprocal rights of the modern kingdom together.
The Queen, by this missive, was advocating a return to darker, bloodier times before the King’s father gained the throne. Like many young men, he had only heard the tales of strife and battle from aged veterans of the civil affray. These days it was prudent not to question too loudly whether the House of York or Lancaster had the better claim to the throne. That issue had been irrecoverably settled at Bosworth Field and Henry Tudor was the victor and King by the grace of God and Act of Parliament. If any doubted the judgement, the crushing of the later attempted rebellions and the death of Edmund de la Pole, the last White Rose claimant, at Pavia, made the point moot.
Now if this little script was to be believed, Queen Katherine of Aragon was seeking to return to those bloody days to stop the annulment of her marriage. It seemed to Ned a desperately risky move. What could she be hoping to achieve? Well the collapse of the petition for one thing, but what else? Queen Katherine had fulfilled all the duties expected of a Royal wife, except one, the most important for the King’s Majesty and the kingdom—providing a living son.
Ned wasn’t some naive simpleton. He understood that politics ruled the manners and fashions of his lords and masters. However except in a very few cases, it wasn’t cold calculation that balanced the scales of action. Frequently it was the fiery passions of life; love, lust, thwarted desire, envy and rancour that drove alliances and separations. The King’s Grace may be the Lord’s anointed monarch of England. However in spite of that, he was still a man. A fragment of Ned’s brief classical education came to mind. When the Ancient Romans were honouring their victors with a triumph, didn’t a slave ride in the chariot with the general reminding him that he was still a man? Past all the honour, ceremony and God’s anointing, wasn’t their Sovereign Majesty the same as that Roman general, even the renowned Julius Caesar?
Ned suddenly blinked in surprise and quickly gave the kitchen a furtive survey. No, not a soul there had noticed his thoughts straying into deepest heresy. Shakily he rubbed his face with a suddenly damp hand and explored the possibility of a king being the same as any other son of Adam.
If that was the case, then His Majesty could act like many a common husband or father who lacked sons. Of course Ned had seen a few marriages like that, the boy children dying early or having only girls. Most had managed well enough, but often he wondered what the father felt, knowing his name would be submerged and vanish, the work of a lifetime given over to a son–in–law. He’d seen the steady flow of cases and petitions for inheritance through the courts. A man without sons could be very vulnerable to the chill winds of chance. For those other cases, where desperation for the future outweighed the pledge of the marriage vows, was it despair or rancour that caused good women to be put away or cast off? All because they couldn’t provide the vital requirement of family inheritance—a son. It was sad and tragic that a marriage had been cursed so. However it had been ordained by the Lord and not even the humblest petitions of the mighty could sway that highest judgement. As the alchemists put it, ‘so as above so as below’, what was true for a farmer was equally true for a king.
However for kingdoms such an event was a calamity. As a man was naturally expected to lead the family, the King was the father of the kingdom and so he must have a male heir to succeed. The other perilous solution left few options.
If you had a daughter like young Princess Mary, then she could be married off to an eligible suitor. However, according
to the laws and customs of the realm, her husband became King and that temptation was a heady tonic for any of the kingdom’s nobles. So it was best if the suitor was of royal lineage from across the water and if that were so, only one family came to mind—the Hapsburgs.
According to some learned men at the Inns, opportune marriages made the Hapsburgs the modern power of our world. Emperor Charles would naturally advance the suit of any of his family so that by rights, in the fullness of time, the Kingdom of England would be added as an inheritance to his already vast domains. That was worrying. Of course a worse fate beckoned. The Princess Royal could be married to a Valois of France, as had been bruited about a few years ago.
That was a very chilling thought and upset the natural order of the past. The link with the House of Hapsburg was a generation strong, not always to the advantage of England, but it had served as the usual counter to the French. This base treachery now changed that, for only a fool would not see that it was to the Emperor’s advantage to frustrate the moves of their most mighty and puissant Sovereign. The longer the annulment was dragged out then the better chance that Princess Mary would be the only legitimate heir, and when you considered the evidence, the Queen obviously now felt her duty towards her Hapsburg kin was stronger than her anointed pledge as consort.
Ned stilled another quiver of fear and apprehension. It would be best not to let Emma see how terrified this scrap of parchment made him. Its treacherous import was almost too great to handle. This was the sort of conspiracy that men like Norfolk and Cromwell consorted with every day, so why couldn’t he just pass it on? Wasn’t this the sort of situation that you would expect reported by their coteries of informers and pursuivants?
For a brief span of time, as Ned sat there staring blankly at the incriminating scrap, he really considered racing over to Westminster and throwing it into the lap of his good lord. For a while he wavered, until he recalled the session with his uncle this morning. Realistically that was the sort of reception he could expect—a written report, then only watchful anticipation as the calculation of advantage began. Thus worked the practiced court habits of the Privy Council. Ned quailed at the prospect, but as his angel reminded him, this was his city and no matter which way this projected mayhem worked out, it was certain that he and his friends would suffer.
That certain knowledge transformed his wavering into a swelling anger and drove him to the decision. If the great wouldn’t act to halt this, then he would! His daemon twitched an idea out of the shadows of his thoughts. Yes…yes…it was a possible plan. It could be made to work. Letting it coalesce into a solid form he seized another parchment, and with quill clutched purposefully, he began a series of messages. Yes he was certain. A deliberate spirit had seized his hand as the quill raced across the page and he remembered a doggerel line his nurse used to hum—‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who then was the gentleman?’
He would show Queen Katherine and the treacherous Staffords what loyalty lay in the hearts of Englishmen!
***
Chapter 19. Oranges and Arguments, To the Ruyter, Evening to Night, 8th June
Ned strode purposefully through the busy streets of the city with his impromptu retinue stomping and growling along behind. Menace was no longer just hinted at. Ned gave a savage grin at the clatter caused by his wake. He’d abruptly dragged his reluctant retainers from their repast of pease pudding and beef, roasted in bacon fat, and it made for an ill mood. Ouze had kept them at their business with a few meaningful nudges from his cudgel. The last complaints had disappeared when Ned had promised to pay for an evening’s carousel and feast at the Bee Skep after this Sunday. He wanted them at their best for his journey to Smarts Key even at the price of further draining of his famished purse. At the end of this dismal affair the treasurer of the Company of the Cardinal’s Angels had better be forthcoming, or he would have a serious falling out with her.
Except for his passage, it was a very quiet and subdued traverse to the river. Despite the crowds and the influx for the law term, the city was in a sombre mood and the sweat of anxiety spread through alley and lane. Whether it was caused by the agitation of the friars, the raids of More’s pursuivants or the constant fear of a summer outbreak of pestilence, he couldn’t tell but the city was in a breathless pause of nervous anticipation.
And he’d done his bit in stirring it up. His retinue’s score stood at eight friars set upon and roughed up before they’d hit St Katherine’s Coleman by Seething Lane. After that the word was spreading and friars suddenly became scarce. Ned had smiled grimly as they traversed Beer Lane, nary a friar in sight for a whole parish—excellent!
His quill cramped fingers felt satisfied at their labour. Since his masters had accorded him little respect for his talents and no honour for his position, he’d decided to play on the ground of his choosing. An hour’s effort at Mistress Emma’s table had a dozen letters drawn up, each addressed to the parish constables scattered across London, ‘bidding them in the Lord Chancellor’s name to seize and secure forthwith any lewd and mischievous friars who were preaching without a writ from the Bishop of London’. To speed up compliance he had made a fair imitation of Sir Fredrick Belsom’s signature. Normally he wouldn’t have been so brazen about forgery. However with the threat of more severe punishment if he failed, and the chance of losing a hand paled into insignificance, compared to say a head. As for another set of notes, well ‘Red Ned Bedwell’ did have standing and honour amongst the lower denizens of the city. Thus it was an simple task to pen a promissory note for several men of darker reputation, offering four golden angels if they kept their parish, friar free till Sunday. Either one method or the other would clear the streets.
So it was a satisfied Ned that arrived at Smarts Key at the three of the clock chimes. The usual scattered crowd of paid watchers and the naturally curious greeted him as he stepped onto the wharf. No great change, except that they all kept a respectful distance from the vessel. Ned’s smile widened with mirthless pleasure. Excellent, word of the previous night’s end to the affray must have been spread along the riverfront. Maybe they’d be left alone now. It was amazing how the whiff of brimstone could quell a mob.
Ned had the whole of the city to transverse before he got here and in that time his temper had edged towards the breaking point. Tumbling friars was only a partial balm. His rage had been stoked by days of disdainful treatment. Once more he was trapped into being a pawn of the powerful. He hadn’t asked for this perilous challenge. All he had wanted was to finish his legal apprenticeship at Gray’s Inn and find honourable employment. The way things were going that was a diminishing prospect. What noble family would engage him and not suspect he was a spy set to betray them? He was already marked as a servant of Cromwell and now he had the dubious distinction of attracting the interest of the Duke of Norfolk. That combination was dangerous enough thank you, without adding the possible taint of heresy. He gave a frown as he paced up the gangplank. By all the saints, association with Meg Black came at a stiff price!
If it wasn’t for honour, duty and obligation, Ned would have stepped clear of this problem days ago. No chance of that. His daemon had conveniently reminded him of the large amount of his future payments invested in the vessel and cargo. Now if only his lords and masters understood the meaning of a sworn oath. According to usages of chivalry, it was supposed to be reciprocal, guaranteeing protection for service. That and the duty to the King, and God through his handmaiden the Church, was what bound the commonweal together. The greater part of what stoked his fury was the natural assumption that as a servant he could be used as a cats–paw without any consideration of his own honour. That was a vile corruption of the relationship.
It could have been understandable. It may even have been justified, but in no way was it sensible or prudent. Ned slammed the door of the shipmaster’s cabin hard against the wall as he entered. It sounded like the boom of a Great Gonne and startled Mistress Black and Albrecht. They both spun around in surprise dislo
dging the sorted pile of shipping bills, which fell onto the deck in a slow, fluttering cascade.
Meg Black took one look at the spreading carpet of words and numbers and turned to Ned. “You tottering, tickle–brained puttock! That took hours to work through. We just about had it done and you burst in without a care, like some ill bred, ham handed measle!”
Ned was not going to be put off by Meg’s ‘you’re a clumsy clot’ routine. He had his own claims on anger. He stood his ground and roared back. “Well damn you Meg Black for a meddling fool. What whispering serpent convinced you to seize those oranges risking us all!”
If he thought she was peeved at his interruption that was nothing. Mistress Black drew herself up to her full height of five foot with hands on hips and her eyes sparking fury fit to set a fire. “And damn yourself Ned Bedwell. I was there and nor do I need the say so of any of God’s creatures who need to scratch a codpiece before I act! Anyway who made you lord and master to command so?”
“It is my natural right by law and custom to be obeyed. After all I lead this company!” Well it was the truth as Ned perceived it then and there, and by the law framed in his musty tomes. He was sort of right and the Church did support the biblical fact that a woman was in second place to a man, her natural lord and master. However there was a great deal of distance between letters scribbled on crackling parchment and the daily realities of life. His proclamation, as he found, exposed the gaping flaws in this reasoning.
“Do you so?”
It was quietly said for Mistress Black had reached that calm plateau beyond mere anger. Her passion was furnace bright, fit for forging and casting the bolts of Jupiter. Ned may have had a flicker of apprehension and his better angel of caution and restraint tugged vainly at his shoulder. Alas though, it was all to no avail for the daemon of righteousness was firmly in the saddle and so ignored the first step over the precipice. Usually Ned would have noted, with a significant twitch of foreboding, her assumed stance with folded arms, but his choleric temper pushed him well past prudence.
The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 22
