The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  This was becoming a very confusing day. This morning he’d bribed Albrecht, midday he’d shot at Meg Black, and this afternoon he’d been bought by Belsom. So if Lady Fortuna was playing her hand in this fashion, Ned couldn’t wait to find out what the evening had in store for him.

  ***

  Chapter 26. A Pair of Punks to Play, The Ruyter, Afternoon to Evening, 9th June

  It was closer to half an hour before Ned felt calm enough from his previous conversation to deal with the next issue, the riverside punks. Suppressing the urge to destroy something had been a sore trial. A few prayers had given some respite but the rage was still there, hovering over his shoulder like a waiting kite ready to dive for prey. As for the fear, fortunately the anger had washed it away, at least for now. Ned instead busied himself with finding a good hiding place for the gold. No matter the outcome, Sir Belsom wasn’t getting it back.

  The search for a hidey hole though created another problem. He daren’t use any of the places Albrecht knew in case events went awry. The five hundred pounds in gold coins may be the last bargaining piece Ned held, and he couldn’t call upon the expertise of Rob Black. Trust was not the issue, but on a ship there were only so many available places to secrete anything, and from what Ned had seen every one of them was packed with contraband. What was needed was a place no one accustomed to smuggling would consider searching. It was then that the most horrible and disgusting idea came to him. No it couldn’t work, could it? Well if he flinched from just the idea of it then it just might suffice. Ned stripped off his doublet and shirt. He may be prepared to do many vile and repulsive things, but ruining his last good set of clothes definitely wasn’t one of them.

  It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought—no, that for was certain. The act had been much, much worse. Losing his last meal had been the least repulsive part, and now scrubbing the residue off his arms with water drawn from the river was a noisome task in itself. Once in position, he had almost trod on the ship’s cat as it was stalking its squeaking snacks. That could have ruined everything, though the noise of the revels in the forward hold helped cloak his efforts. Considering the amount of contraband onboard, the thick–furred predator must have been used to shuffling amongst the cargo. It just gave him a baleful yellow glare and continued with its duties.

  While washing Ned couldn’t help remembering that all the ordure and refuse from the city streets eventually found its way into the Thames, and from the aroma wafting through the open window, that scouring had been recent. He found a sealed pitcher of tart wine, and in desperation, used it to wash off the last residue. Great, now he stank like a tosspot!

  Pulling his shirt back on, Ned went in search of his friend Rob and the two girls. That turned out to be relatively simple. He found them all at the forecastle. Of all the possibilities at hand with two very attractive riverside punks, the very last most of a thousand imaginings that would have occurred to Ned’s daemon was what he saw there. Rob Black was explaining to the two girls the arcane art of the Gonne, using the Falconet he had employed on the mob the other night. What amazed Ned was the rapturous regard of his two guests. They were so deeply involved in the artificer’s explanation they didn’t even notice his arrival. Lizzie, the taller blonde one, even asked what could have been called a very pertinent question about the path of the travelling missile and its force when it struck. Ned stood there with his arms crossed and shook his head in bewilderment. The ways of women were just unfathomable.

  Still Ned didn’t feel like intruding. If giving instruction in mechanics was what Rob wanted to do with two ready young girls, who was he to complain. It was just that he felt Rob had missed an excellent opportunity to, ahh, expand his experience. Ned leant against the rail taking a brief rest. He was getting very tired of the continual high drama that fate deemed be played out in the cabin of the slain Shipmaster. Although the murder was committed in the hold, the essence of the foul deed permeated the timbers of that cabin. Many times over the past few days Ned had felt the ghostly, clawing demands of the dead for vengeance. At this recollection he instinctively crossed himself.

  This last week had seen some dreadful revelations. One would almost think it had been penned by one of the more bloodthirsty and convoluted Greek dramatists. So far, Mistress Black’s long time family business partner, Albrecht, had arranged to betray her to Sir Thomas More’s heretic hunters, while the respectable Joachim was engaged in treasonous smuggling, and it was possible that he was also part of the conspiracy to hand over Mistress Black and all the illicit cargo. As well, in theory Ned had just accepted a bag of gold to sell them all to Belsom. His daemon also warily prompted that Skelton was still expecting to be supplied with a Spaniard disguised as a priest. As for the mystery of Ben Robinson and the powder sorters, despite a debt of honour, the discovery of the Tower officer was going to have to wait.

  Now, as his better angel reminded him, in all of this treachery, double dealing and shadowed cony tricks, where exactly did his understanding of justice and law fit? Was it actually compatible with the survival of his earthly body in these decayed, modern times?

  According to the strict interpretation of the law as decreed by the King’s Majesty in his suppression of heretical books, both More and Belsom could be said to have correctly obeyed. As far as Ned was concerned, the pursuit was neither just nor honourable. He may be cynical as his daemon said, but he’d witnessed the laws of the realm in action in the suits and petitions at the Court’s of Common Pleas and the King’s Bench. There he’d witnessed cases decided more on the personal biases of His Majesty’s Councillors and their friends, not the good of the commonweal or the plaintiff. As for the enactment of statute, it came down to a matter of interpretation of the King’s writ by lower minions, each with an eye to their personal advantage.

  So where did Ned stand in all of this? He was just a man, not a saint, so common foibles and flaws were his lot. So how did he, Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer and servant to Thomas Cromwell, deal with all that he’d learned this week and most importantly of all, what action should he take?

  As far as Ned was concerned, despite the pretentious claims of Meg Black, there was only one leader of the Companie of the Cardinal’s Angels. As the ancient philosophers wrote, it was his task, nay his bound duty and responsibility to protect those who claimed his patronage. After all he was almost a gentleman.

  First to the Hanse. Well Albrecht did betray Meg, and apart from the time he would undoubtedly spend in the possession of demons, paying for his sins, there was the matter of earthly justice. It was difficult to tell how much of his fall was from simple greed and how much from the fear and the pressure Belsom and Welkin had put on him. A mitigating factor may have been the loss of his friends, who had been dragged off to the Lollard tower for months of long questioning. Such sights had been known to erode a man’s resolve. No matter. If Albrecht was being threatened, the Hanse merchant knew he could have warned Meg, and she would have moved all of London to aid him. So for his act of betrayal there was a matter of compensation for injury to the insufferable Meg Black.

  And then to the slaying of Joachim and his nephew Pieter. Whether they were in on Albrecht’s act of treachery was impossible to ascertain so Ned was inclined to err on the side of Christian compassion. Their slaying was murder, no other word for it. How they were placed was an act of gross indecency and to Ned displayed the cankerous perversity of the murder’s soul. Their slayers had to be dealt with and if possible those above who orchestrated the outrage as well. To Ned it was becoming obvious that the hands that held the slaying blades obeyed a higher command—two royal officials at least. Anyway once that was solved they needn’t fear the threats of the Lord Chancellor, for without that double death his writ crumbled, and both Meg Black and the vessel were free. Then as if a bright light pierced his thoughts, Ned felt the intercession of an angel. A vision was forming and figures standing together. Demons with long pointed teeth grinned mirthlessly and spread a welcoming hand to their gather
ed minions as the scene unfolded to reveal…

  “Ned!” A hand on his shoulder was shaking him. Ned Bedwell pulled out of his entranced vision and blinking, shook his head. He was on the deck of the ship, not the burning plains of hell, and Rob Black was tugging at him.

  “What…what’s going on?”

  “Ned, you looked so strange. I thought you were ill!” Rob had turned him around and was peering intently at him, concern writ clear in his furrowed brows.

  “No it’s all right, I was just ahh…well I was, ahh… Don’t worry, I’m just tired.” Ned couldn’t find the words to describe what he’d seen. It had felt so strange, a mixture of both angelic and demonic. He shoved the feeling aside, waving away the fussing and instead pulled Rob to one side. “My thanks for keeping our guests occupied. Ahh, but the Gonnes, do you think that was necessary?”

  Rob adopted a very hurt expression and then gave a familiar shrug. “Why not? They enjoyed the tour and the lesson. Anyway it was my Christian duty.”

  Ned wasn’t sure if he was still in the lingering hold of the vision. Teaching girls how to unleash the demons of Gonne powder didn’t strike him as a Christianly act.

  Rob must have sensed his doubt, for his friend straightened up and adopted that almost haughty self righteousness Ned had seen so frequently in his friend’s sister. “Lizzie said the girls on the riverside are terrified of being taken by slavers. So I showed them what to do, if ever that happened, how you could take the ship if you knew how to use the Falconet.”

  Ned rubbed his face wearily before answering. He swore this day was getting stranger by the minute. “What! You taught women how to load and fire the Gonne? Rob, my friend, I know that St Barbara is the patron saint of Gonners, but isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  The young artificer frowned and shook his head emphatically. “No. they were attentive and learned quickly, better than many lads I’ve seen. What did Sir Belsom want?”

  This rapid change in the conversation caught Ned by surprise. “Well, ahh, the usual slanders and blandishments.”

  He hadn’t meant to lie to Rob or mislead him, and it wasn’t the five hundred gold coins tying his tongue, no matter what his angel insinuated. It was just, at this present moment, the less Rob who knew, the safer he would be. After all, what he didn’t know couldn’t be dragged out of him.

  To avoid more difficult questions Ned quickly tried to shepherd the girls towards the cabin. Lizzie, the ravishingly blonde one, refused to budge unless Rob came along. Great, another chaperone dictated by a punk’s infatuation. Ned gave a regretful sigh. No chance of a discreet tumble now.

  Ned could have groaned in despair and frustration. Here again! When would he be able to leave this cursed room? He took his stance resting against the table, while waving the girls over towards the bunk. Rob pulled the door closed and grabbed one of the stools. Perhaps he should have considered this more carefully for once on the bunk both girls began to loosen their bodices.

  Normally, without any extra encouragement from his daemon, Ned would have cheered this on. However now there were other pressing concerns vying for his attention. “Ahh, ladies, that’s not necessary. Please, you can keep your dresses on!”

  That earned a frown from Mary and a disappointed sigh from Lizzie, as well as a long lingering pout towards Rob Black which turned him an interesting shade of embarrassed.

  Once more Mary spoke up in defence of her still raging suspicions. “Wot’s this? We’ve already told y’ we’re not the sort t’ play the trick wot they ‘ave at the Biddle. That be just un–nacharal.”

  Ned shook his head. The gilt coin should have allayed most of their fears, but apparently not enough. This was not an act he would normally consider. After all it was damned dangerous. Ned pulled out the brace of pistols from his doublet and placed them on the table. “This is like the Gonne Robert showed you how to use, but you wind this and pull back this hammer to cock it.”

  So imitating his friend, Ned took them through another arcane art of war. If this pattern kept up they’d be real Amazons before they left the ship. Ned shuddered to think what warlike skill Captaine Gryne’s men might contribute to their education. He refrained from mentioning that the weapons were unloaded before he placed them in the hands of the amazed pair. Maybe it was that display of trust that finally got through. However Ned was beginning to suspect that Rob could probably get all the answers he ever wanted from Lizzie, and a great deal more.

  “Sweet ladies, I’m investigating a matter for His Majesty’s Privy Council, and I believe you may be able to help.”

  His two guests each looked sceptically at him. Well he supposed as punks they heard all manner of boasts, so he pulled out the writ. The impressed wax seal of the Privy Council looked pretty daunting on the parchment. So did it to anyone without detailed knowledge of the workings of the Court. However as Ned had found, if flashed fast, you could get away with almost anything. The seals with real power resided with the King and the Lord Chancellor, and Ned knew he had a better chance of being elected Pope that getting access to those. No matter. The imprint and signature drew the rapt attention of the two girls, and Mary rubbed the raised red wax seal with a finger, as if her skin could scent the veracity of royal authority. If any trace of the King’s potency lingered with the imprimatur, it was pretty diluted by the time it had reached Ned.

  Mary snatched her hand away as if the wax had burned and frowned defensively. “So it’s pretty Master Bedwell. Wot do the likes of us ‘ave to do with the King?”

  Ned sighed. He had a few thoughts in that area that were, for a change, totally unrelated to the avocation of the two girls. In a city as large and populous as London, no act or deed went unnoticed and usually unpunished. The clusters of gossips that frequented the wells and fountains were always trading their usual currency of assumptions or rumours, while the neighbours in each of the city’s parishes maintained a jealous eye on each other for protection or advantage, all keen to maintain their privileges.

  So someone saw something, and if it wasn’t amongst the good citizens of the city, then Ned would troll through the despised denizens of the lower orders, and as he had noticed this afternoon, the riverside punks kept a very good watch.

  “Six nights ago, after the Compline bells, a young boy and his uncle were murdered on this vessel in a most foul and bestial manner. I believe that the murderers travelled east along the river, carrying some barrels of cargo down river. Did you see anything?” Well actually Ned couldn’t be certain that was the case, but such a method of transport made sense. The tide would have been aiding their trip to the ship. And anyway, using a cart was too impractical and noticeable even to the myopic inhabitants of the riverside.

  Lizzie’s eye’s widened in surprise. It looked like she was about to say something until an elbowed nudge from halted the revelation. Ned’s eyes narrowed at this abrupt termination. So from that it would seem that the girls on the river had more than common knowledge of this sorry matter.

  Gold, it was said by the philosophers, may help loosen tongues, but fear had an excellent effect on clamping lips. Someone had been very thorough. They’d silenced the smugglers of Southwark, and from what he had seen this afternoon, held the riverside merchants firmly by their cods. Now the punks of the riverside also blanched at the apparent threats. He understood the belligerent attitude of Mary’s girls. Outside the dubious protection of a stew or whoremaster, they must lead a precarious existence. When it came to the balance of fear, Ned knew he couldn’t compete, but maybe something else could tip the scales.

  Truth. Well, a sort of truth, a part of it, at least.

  Ned sighed deeply. “You’ve heard the friars preaching this last week?”

  At this unexpected question the frowning Mary remained resolutely silent, and for a change it was Lizzie who answered. “We ‘ave. They bin preachin’ about ‘ell an’ the sufferin’s o’ the wicked at every corner an’ pillory through our patch, damnin’ any who speaks agin’ ‘em. Calling th
at God will bring down a rain o’ fire an’ destruction on all who don’t ‘elp Queen Katherine.”

  Following her companions lead, Mary now also spoke up. “They’re ‘ard on trade, they are, scarin’ off our lads. ‘ow’s a lass to earn ‘er bread? We’s tried to put ‘em off, but they’s always comes back.”

  Now that she mentioned it, Ned had noticed in his frequent forays that the friars clustered very heavily on the eastern side of the city, from Petty Wales up to Aldgate. If he had the chance that bore further investigation. He was curious why none of the meddlesome preachers had disputed his recent passage with the crowd of punks. Had his letters of yesterday been that effective? His daemon though suggested another solution—all of them may have been summoned to aid an endangered part of the enterprise. It was ironic that Meg Black’s truculence may finally have been some real use.

  “Well ladies, this writ charges me to investigate a treason that links the murder of those on this ship with the friars and other malicious plots, and to question those who may be involved.” Ned had gained an inkling that these disparate affairs may somehow be linked and fervently hoped it was so. Otherwise come Sunday he could look forward to trouble.

  Both girls blanched at the words and gave an instinctive twitch of the fingers to avert any ill fortune t their mention. The whisper of treason in any conversation tended to make people nervous, examining their memory for any thought, word or deed that may be misconstrued and merit closer attention by the King’s servants in the iron barred rooms of the Tower. In this particular dread, the punks were no different from any other citizen of the city, all keen to avoid the scrutiny of self serving men. From their reaction Ned could see how the looming prospect of the Rack served to encourage frank confession and cooperation.

  As tempting as the use of fear was, he shrugged off the salacious suggestions of his shoulder daemon, and pushed further into the uncharted realm of honesty. “I could promise you purses of gold, rich silks and velvets for your help, but that would be as truthful as the boasts of your customers.”