The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Ned gave a rueful smile and shook his head. At least it gained a brief giggle from Lizzie. “I’ll not give you such nonsense and I swore to keep you safe while you were on board this ship, so I’ll not utter similar threats to those that have so far kept you silent.”

  That was received with very puzzled frowns, while Lizzie kept glancing across to Black Rob as if seeking assurance. Mary, however, kept her hands tightly on the pistol resting across her lap. Well this was as good a reception as he could expect, so Ned pressed on “If you tell me what I need to know, then a purse of ten angels each is yours and the protection of Gryne’s men come what may.”

  He had tried to be generous and realistic with his reward. The coin was better than they could normally expect, but not so much that would raise instant suspicion that it was promise of moonbeams.

  The pair considered his proposal with Lizzie glancing beseechingly at the young artificer, who shuffled nervously under the feminine assault. Mary however continued to tightly clutch the pistol in her hand and whispered into her companion’s ear. Whatever it was made the ravishing blonde purse her red lips in frowning concern and return a low voiced answer. Ned kept his attention fixed on the two punks while some sort of hushed debate was obviously in progress.

  For a change it was Lizzie who spoke up but not to Ned. Instead she directed a question to Rob. “Why should we need protection?”

  That was a surprise and once more Rob’s cheeks shaded towards embarrassed. “Lizzie, from what I’ve seen this last seven days, some amongst the Lords are planning bloody mayhem for London to aid some plot of theirs.”

  Lizzie gasped and put a free hand to her heaving breast. Ooh, very attractive actually. Ned bit his lip in an effort to suppress his daemon.

  Ignoring the swelling orbs, Rob continued. “Ned here is as much a sinner as any of us, and suffers from surfeit of pride and arrogance. Like many a gentleman, he overindulgences in ale, gaming and brawls. Despite his faults, he’s a man of his word and stands by his friends.”

  Rob gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “He even aids my sister still, and as you’ve heard, her surly manner would try a saint.”

  That response gained a couple of knowing smiles aimed in Ned’s direction. He felt distinctly embarrassed, twiddling with his sword hilt and gazing out the cabin window in a attempt to convey nonchalance and disinterest. It didn’t work. Well it was always interesting to hear how others viewed him. It was just that he’d hoped for a more glowing commendation, one that concentrated less on his flaws! At least Mistress Black’s fearsome reputation seemed to have finally won him some grudging pity, and maybe some help. And possibly, his daemon hinted, lots of close and tender sympathy.

  Lizzie shoved her elbow into the side of her protector and hissed urgently into Mary’s attentive ear. The dagger wielding punk glowered at her friend but another deliberate elbow poke settled the debate.

  “We may’ve seen some,” Mary grudgingly admitted, massaging a tender rib.

  “Oh give over, Mary.” Rob’s new admirer gave her friend a hefty push. “Tis the two of ‘em. They’ve been lordin’ it o’ the riverside for the past month, claimin’ rights an’ dues off all o’ us betwixt Petty Wales an’ Steelyards.”

  Ned tried very hard to stifle a wide grin, and massaged his chin to suppress it, all the while wondering how he could use this sudden fount of information and just how immune high royal officials were to prosecution.

  “That night twas nigh dawn at the Goat’s Head. They boasted they’d done in some filthy foreigners who crossed ‘em and all the dockside would do well to ‘eed the lesson.” Lizzie shivered in remembered fright.

  “He wanted me for a tussle after that, his clothes still all splattered from the slaying. But Mary stepped in an’ saved me claimin’ that only two o ’best girls would do for the lords o’ dockside.”

  That seemed the end of the confession for with a sob Lizzie leapt off the bunk and fled to the surprised shelter of Rob’s arms. Ned turned once more to the leader of the riverside punks, the belligerent Mary. She no longer looked so aggressive, instead only resigned.

  “It’s as Lizzie says. More ‘n fifty others ‘eard it and word of the slaying is all o’ the docks. It matter naught though. They’ve friends at Court who’ll see ‘em right.”

  “Who are the murderers?”

  Mary seemed surprised by the question and looked quizzically at Ned. “Why, the two you wuz trailing today, Clemmie Watkins an’ Johnny Edwards.”

  It would have to be so, wouldn’t it? The fragments of the murder and the plot with the Queen’s Oranges began to click into place. His deficient memory also kicked in a belated recollection. The tall one with the peacock’s feather in his cap—the last time Ned had seen that the fellow was fuming over a misfired harquebus in Crooked Lane. The two elusive powder sorters had finally surfaced, but who did they serve in all this? Welkin, Belsom, themselves, or another as yet undisclosed party? That was the question of the hour and if he didn’t find the answer very soon, well he didn’t like to think about the consequences.

  ***

  Chapter 27. Rancour and Revenge, The Ruyter to London Bridge, Evening to Night, 9th June

  Ned lent back against the wall in the shipmaster cabin. His mind all awhirl at the implications of what both punks had told him. He now had the murderers of Joachim and young Pieter identified, with a stack of witnesses available. However that’s also where the normal outcome foundered upon the rocky shoals of reality. No inquest would accept the sworn statement of a swag of part time prostitutes or of the usual tosspots and drunkards that infested the Goat’s Head tavern. Well, not unless the justices were persuaded to overlook the dubious character of the witnesses with a substantial inducement, or if a Royal ‘suggestion’ could be gained. Either of those two easy options was for Ned, an apprentice lawyer deeply lacking in connections and substantial wealth, out of the question, so apart from having the names, he was back to square one.

  Not that the actions of a court mattered. No justice of any description in this country was going to convict two men who could claim the Lord Chancellor as their lord and master. Also, considering what was happening, neither Blackford nor Belsom, depending on who they actually served, would yield them. So it would seem that his earlier consideration was the only way. It was private justice or none, unless of course Watkins and Edwards could be persuaded to confess to their crime before credible witnesses. But that would be naught short of a miracle, and in these decayed times miracles were the province of the credulous.

  Any further musings or questions were curtailed by a loud rapping on the door. Mary pointed the pistol waveringly in that direction, while Lizzie squealed and nestled deeper into the broad shelter of Rob’s arms. The portal opened to show a frowning Tam Bourke. The retainer looked startled for a moment at the fascinating tableau, until with a regretful sigh Ned stood up blocking the view.

  “Yes Tam, what is it?” Ned hoped that didn’t come out too waspish, but he’d had his fill of interruptions in this cabin, and always when it was getting interesting.

  “Ned Bedwell, I’ll do all manner o’ red handed deeds fo’ yea and guard yer back, even manage yer whores, but damn me lad I’ll nay be yer doorman! Ye got another caller, the sour faced beard o’ there.” The deputy of Captaine Gryne pointed back over his shoulder with a grimy thumb in the direction of the wharf.

  Wasn’t he popular today! Ned, shaking his head with regret, had no choice but to leave the girls once more in the capable custody of his friend Rob. With muttered apologies, he grabbed his cap and shoved it firmly on his unruly hair, then left with what he vainly hoped was dignity and poise.

  Ned could have cursed and sworn. The evening wasn’t getting any better. One of Skelton’s dour northerners was waiting for him at the dock. The fellow growled out some near incomprehensible message that left Ned once more shaking his head in bewilderment. Couldn’t these savages learn to speak properly? A play of gesturing finally got across the messag
e that Skelton wanted a meeting. Ned glanced at the sky. It was well into the long summer evening. He supposed he had time to humour Norfolk’s retainer and still deal with the problems of the Gonne powder and the Queens Oranges. So with a resigned shrug he set off to see what that bearded clot of a northerner wanted this time.

  Ned slammed painfully into the wall and a cloud of sparks flashed before his eyes, as a strong hand gripped his throat with all the implied menace that this could be his last breath. “Bedwell, I’s been a kindly friend but there’s limits to ma’ generosity. Y’ promised me that mule futterer, Don Alva. I got y’ message so where is the Spanish sheep shagger?” The grip tightened and Ned tried to remember some of the wrestling tricks Master Sylver had taught him. His body refused to comply with the reasonable request. Damn, it probably felt fresh air was a more immediate concern.

  “Agghhhh gwwl.”

  “I canna hear y’ lad. What did y’ say?” The pressure on Ned’s throat eased slightly, but the fingers remained, gripping tightly with more than a hint of anticipation.

  Ned eagerly drew in a rasping breath. Never had the city’s fetid air tasted so good. “I saw him up by Temple Bar!”

  Skelton leant across the clamped arm of his grinning retainer, peering into Ned’s eyes. “Y’ already said that in the message. What else? Y’ naught be try’n to cozen me would y’ lad?”

  From the reek on Skelton’s close breath, the northerner must chew on raw onions. Ned tried very hard to take shallow breath despite the demands of his body. “There is nothing else! I don’t know where the filthy Spaniard went to!”

  Skelton stepped back and sadly shook his head “Ahh Ned, I’s, sorry to hear y’ talk like that. It really tugs ma’ heart strings, but I’s going to let the lads have another wee chat with y’.”

  The constricting pressure returned to Ned’s throat and his body’s demands became more urgent as one of Skelton’s men slammed a fist into his stomach. As Ned doubled over in pain, the choker of the pair threw him back against the wall and his sight speckled with red flashes as the agony spiralled up his torso.

  At a wave from their leader both men stepped back and a limp Ned dropped to his knees. He would have puked, but the knot in his throat gagged back the flood of bile. By the saints, that felt worse than the pummelling!

  As Ned was pushing himself up, a less than kindly hand grasped his hair and dragged his face once more into the view of Skelton’s. “Has y’ recalled it yet lad?”

  If Skelton was trying for the sympathetic uncle approach, the broken toothed smile did nothing to help his bid. Ned tried to frame an answer but only a raw cough emerged.

  “I’ll give y’ time to rack y’ memory, just for friendship’s sake lad.”

  If this was the consideration to a boon companion, Ned didn’t want to see how Skelton treated an enemy. Maybe they had a few different notions up north in the wild lands. Apart from breathing and subduing the spasms that jolted his body after the pummelling at the hands of some half a dozen smiling northerners, he actually did try to do as Skelton had so roughly asked. The message had definitely been relayed from the Orange Watch to Norfolk’s man. Of course no one had thought to inform Ned back at the Ruyter, an omission he blamed on Meg stiff necked Black. So after a goodly dose of encouragement from Norfolk’s minions, it was imperative to figure out where in the city an arrogant Spaniard in service to a treacherous queen would chose to hide. Definitely before round three of the tender ministration began.

  Ned spat out a mouthful of sour bile “Damn you Skelton. I could only follow him a short way. He’s disguised as one of those damned friars that infest the city.”

  Norfolk’s man slowly shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, Ned. This I already ken.” Skelton waved his men closer to their prey.

  Ned raised an unsteady hand and called out. “Wait… I know which friar he is! You need me walking, damn you, or you’ll never pick him out from the hundreds!”

  The large black–bearded northerner paused to consider the suggestion and rummaged thoughtfully in his beard. “Aye. True lad, tho’ we’re runnin’ oot a ’time.”

  His retainers took another pace closer. Master Choker was now swinging an nasty looking cudgel and grinning with evil anticipation.

  “I know where he is!”

  The horde stopped and looked beseechingly towards their now smiling leader.

  “There noo lad. That’s better. All y’ needed was a tad o’ a spur. Off we go then.”

  That put a damper on the Norfolk retainers. They looked like someone had stolen their yuletide goose. Ned, however, was as close to happy as a man could be in his grievous circumstances, though where Don Juan Sebastian was, he had only a hazy idea, and that was based on a scrap of overhead gossip from the Inns of Court. Ned would give his left bollock to be able to say that the Spaniard was based at Crosby House, south of Bishopsgate and Houndsitch, on St Mary axe and Leadenhall Street. But that would be much too much good fortune to ask for or expect. That was the city house of the Lord Chancellor, and More wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a trail back to his own door. Instead it would have to be someone sympathetic to Queen Katherine, but with sufficient protection to meddle in power politics.

  Only one person sprung to mind when you looked at the problem like that—Bishop Eustace Chapuy, the Imperial ambassador, who not surprisingly had his residence just down from Milford Lane, very close to where the Stafford women were holed up. According to two sergeants of law at the Inns, Bishop Chapuy was a well regarded ecclesiastical judge originally from Savoy. His renown as a canon lawyer had brought him to Imperial attention and service with the Hapsburgs had honed his talents of efficiency and ruthlessness. They’d also readily discussed his liberality with Imperial silver to whosoever assisted the case for Queen Katherine. In the following month Ned had soon noted who amongst his fellow lawyers had suddenly shifted opinion. Silver, it seemed, attracted very good listeners.

  So if you were mad keen to foment a plot that had Imperial approval, where else would you go? For Ned, Chapuy’s residence had more immediate attractions. That way laid the current region guarded by the Orange Watch. Perhaps he could regain some muscle and turn the tables on Skelton.

  Lady Fortuna could be fickle. From success earlier in the day to near disaster, Ned felt he’d sunk to a depressing low. His only bright spot had been successfully convincing Skelton that they needed to go to the Red Boar to seek the latest intelligence.

  As they walked in, framed by the summer twilight, Ned’s hopes of rescue were dashed. Damn Meg Black—you couldn’t even depend on her wilfulness! He’d hoped for more than the large boisterous festival type crowd that had packed the street as far as the eye could see, singing and carousing. A few of Gryne’s men would have been perfect. Alas, it was not to be. Only Emma still held court in the tavern, with a trickle of children dashing up breathless with news. So where were the guards he’d been at pains to leave? Ned would even have been satisfied with the usually unwelcome looming presence of Gruesome Roger. So Ned was still effectively Skelton’s ‘guest’.

  Emma took his arrival with his friends easily in her stride and had them served a firkin each of her famous double, by the grovelling Tover no less. While the northerners were occupied quenching their thirst, Ned walked over to the owner of the Bee Skep. A couple of his guards made a move to intercept but Skelton indulgently waved them back, while keeping a close but genial eye on his southern boon companion.

  Emma’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she got a closer view. “What happened to you, Ned?”

  The concern was apparent in her voice, and from an attractive woman to a lad beaten black and blue less than an hour before, it was very welcome. “Skelton and his friends didn’t like my news.”

  Ned wasn’t going to mention how he’d been cony–catched by his own stupidity and carelessness, not even to gain sympathy. That, however, that didn’t stop him from berating himself about the galling humiliation of walking straight into it without escort or pistols. His
better angel had scolded him as taking too lax an approach to this deadly affair.

  It was hard to ignore the truth, so he concentrated on Emma. “Any news on the oranges?” Despite his efforts at relaxed nonchalance, this came out in a husky rush.

  Emma frowned and looked askance at his new retinue, while Ned twitched an eyebrow and shrugged reluctant acceptance. “Some Ned. After your ‘chat’ with Margaret, she left in a temper and took it out on those poor liverymen. She got very inventive with delays—it was so entertaining to watch!”

  Emma smiled wickedly at Ned’s sour face. It didn’t need much imagination to fill out that tale. So Mistress Black had succeeded once more, to absolutely refuse to heed his express command.

  Relishing his response, Emma continued to rub in the endeavours of her cousin. “Then Margaret bought all the provender from the local bake shops and held a feast for all comers in the lanes around the Bishop of Bath’s house. She called it a celebration in support of His Majesty’s Great Petition. The local reeves were livid, but couldn’t stop her. None wanted to risk the King’s displeasure at baulking a generous and public display of loyalty. You can imagine the cheers from the locals, oh, and your fellow lawyers and students from the Inns rushed out to join. Probably all of St Clement Inn across the road emptied within a few minutes.”

  Ned frowned pensively and gave a short nod. Yes that would be true. Apprentice lawyers would run over their own mothers to get to a free feast. There was nothing so ravenous as a pack of lawyers in a feasting frenzy. Sourly he moved onto the question he was dreading to ask. “How many did she get?”

  “Oh Ned, I think there must a couple of thousand. Not a soul can move, its so packed.”