The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

Ned could see any profits from this venture fast disappearing. He shuddered to estimate what Meg Black’s exercise in generosity was going to cost, all to bottle up a couple of Stafford women and their baskets of oranges. It was just possible that Ned could be hauled off to debtor’s prison before he was grabbed by the Lord Chancellor. He could almost see the thousands of Cardinal’s Angels they’d salvaged last year trickling away like the most expensive sack gushing out of a breached barrel.

  Feeling poorer and even more despondent as well as bruised, Ned tried to salvage something from this disaster. “What of that friar I asked you to watch?”

  Emma smiled and waved her hand southwards. “Easy, he kept on watching the party from an alleyway down towards Temple Bar, until a short while ago, maybe a quarter hour from the chimes. Then he stalked off going into the Imperial Ambassador’s courtyard off Milford Lane.”

  Ned almost leapt in pleasure. At last one of his hunches had been proven correct. And then he stopped. “That residence it has its own water gate, doesn’t it?”

  Emma had to think for a moment, and then slowly nodded. Ned swore, strode across to Skelton and grabbed him by the doublet. Possibly not the best move, a sudden thicket of edged steel leapt into view. “If you want the Spaniard so much then you better get a move on. He’s heading for the river!”

  For a brief second Skelton looked bemused. Then a savage snarl crossed his face and he let out some sort of rousing cry in that heathen northern tongue. His retainers sheathed their blades and made for the door. Skelton caught hold of Ned and dragged him along in the wake of the flood onto the street before he had even thought of slipping off in the confusion. “Right Ned lad, the hunt’s on. What’s the best route t’ catch us a Spaniard?”

  To Ned this was home ground. The Inns of Chancery weren’t that far away, may be a hefty stones throw. He turned southward toward the riverside and tried to peer past the steeple of St Clement Dane. There was a small decayed alley that ran down to the river between the inhabited and derelict mansions of the powerful. It was sometimes used as a short cut to get a boat for the Bear baiting at Paris Gardens in Southwark. Once at the old wharf there was a chance to catch a wherry, so it was a matter of speed and luck. Ned had a few suspicions as to what the Queen’s servant was up to, but they had to move or labour forever to get past Mistress Black’s merry throng.

  Now it was his turn to drag Skelton along by his sleeve. The Norfolk retainers formed a solid knot behind and used their mass and momentum to cut through the boisterous crowd.

  The entrance to the alley was only just wider than a man’s shoulders and the ground was choked with dark mounds, some groaning in drunken excess, others just mouldering and releasing a whiff of putrid air if you stepped on them. After the first thirty paces and a great deal of prodigious swearing from the Norfolk retainers, unaccustomed to difficult city terrain, they came across a further obstacle.

  Fashions and favour in the city changed with the flow of time. Once great houses of the lords and bishops decayed and fell into ruin as their masters slowly slid from power or had their benefits abruptly terminated by the edge of the axe. So it was in this block between the ancient church of St Clement Dane and the riverside. Deserted monasteries and small churches were accorded changing uses. Some were transformed into hospitals, while others acquired a different sort of parishioner.

  Ned could tell they were getting close from the gasped cries that echoed up the alley. A couple of the northerners loosened their blades at the sounds till Skelton gave a harsh laugh and bid them hold up.

  The interesting situation about London that provided so much work for lawyers was that it was a patchwork of different ownerships and responsibilities. Here was a good example. The church about fifty paces in front of them hadn’t been used for parish service for nay on a hundred years. Nor had it been designated as a hospital or priory. It hung in limbo, jealously guarded by bickering church officials, as each fought to maintain their rights according to which ancient legacy or donation they wheeled out in court. If the building had been in a more privileged patch then the lords temporal may also have put their claim upon it, either for the site or the worked stone. So as it stood, the ruinous structure was accorded the privilege of church supervision, and as such it lay within the bounds of the Liberties, a stubbornly held and much abused right.

  The result was an island of refuge like the Liberties of London, free from the supervision of city officials and the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, formerly Sir Thomas More. So given the absence of lawful supervision, it became the haunt of those escaping the constraints of London’s laws—cutpurses, cozeners, debtors, forgers, murderers and of course whores and punks by the dozen.

  It was the echoes of this latter trade that had so alarmed a few of Skelton’s men. The plying of their avocation also made the passage of the small alley that much more difficult, as they had to squeeze past couples locked in the passion of the beast with two backs.

  Ned wouldn’t have thought it possible from such a barbaric bunch who took part in the lord knew what dubious pursuits back home, quite possibly involving sheep or cattle, but several of the northerners growled disapprovingly at these open displays of lewdness. Well the practicalities of price dictated the necessity. A hump on a pallet was twice the price of one against the wall.

  Ned turned to Skelton who was sneering at the engaged couples. “I can see that you didn’t introduce your lads to all the available diversions of the city.”

  Norfolk’s man shrugged and waved his hand in the direction of the trade. “I’ll nay ‘ave them tainted by southern vices, nay that I’m agin the practice o’ a bit of rumpy, but nay like this. In all this muck, it cramps a man’s skill.”

  Now that was a surprise. Skelton had scruples, and here was Ned thinking Norfolk’s man was just an unprincipled murderer and sheep futterer, who’d commit any act for his own benefit.

  The congested nature of the alley delayed their progress, but they managed to reach the wharf still with maybe an hour of light to spare though not much more from the waning orange glow to the west. Ned had a feeling that Don Juan Sebastian was improvising this move. The Spaniard couldn’t have been happy when the first dispatch of oranges had been abruptly halted, and then when the rescue mission was bogged down by delay and distraction, his temper must have risen alarmingly. Finally Meg Black’s impromptu street party probably pushed the Spaniard into an absolute rage. And recognising who was orchestrating the event, well that would have edged his temper into the incandescent, especially since Meg helped tumble him into a muddy ditch last year. So now the Queen’s servant was watching his mistress’s carefully laid plans fall apart.

  So what part of the plot was Don Juan Sebastian de Alva keen to implement now? And what was he planning to do? Ned had a suspicion that a final part of the conspiracy was yet to lock into place, and it had something to do with the illicit cargo of the Ruyter and More’s pursuivant Sir Frederick Belsom. And somewhere in the tangles of the scheme were two murderous minions, Watkins and Edwards. If he could pin down the two elusive powder sorters, perhaps with a few of Gryne’s Men, he was sure to get answers to that puzzle and maybe some others as well.

  Once at the wharf Skelton managed to gain the attention of a couple of medium sized wherries by the simple expedient of waving a purse of clinking coins. The trade must have been brisk this evening. The river was full of the cries ‘Eastwards Ho’ or ‘Westwards Ho’ as the hundreds of boats competed for custom. There was little hope of fitting this band into one so the party was split and Ned found himself roughly pushed into the same vessel as the scowling Skelton who growled a question at him. “Well Ned lad, where do y’ think that poxy Spaniard is a headin’?”

  In the race down the alley he’d given some thought to that. The plot seemed divided into action around the political centre of the kingdom at Westminster, spurred on by the messages of the oranges. Those cryptic missives were just notice for those with a voice in Parliament, but there needed to
be a goad, a reason to raise the clamour. The gear and powder hidden onboard the ship must be meant for some form of rising, riot or mayhem, otherwise why use the friars to stir up the city? So the ship and its cargo were supposed to originally go down to Greenwich to arm a decent quantity of men who presumably would then march towards London from the east, but to do what? Well something violent and disruptive no doubt. From Ned’s study of the classics like Caesar’s ‘The Gallic Wars’, he had learnt that once set in place most plans are not easily changed. It was probably the case with this one, so the armed band still needed to march at the right time and be assured that all was in place. So it stood to reason that if the Spaniard was going anywhere, he was heading down river.

  “That way, fast!” Ned shouted and waved towards the great bridge.

  Skelton noted the urgency in his voice, and lent towards the two wherry oarsmen. “If y’ don’t put y’r backs into it, I’ll nail y’ cods ta y’ planks.”

  Wherry men are a very independent breed of Londoner. They treat all customers equally, with dismissive disdain and derision no matter what status. So when both oarsmen gave a brief glance at each other and then pulled the oars faster than he’d ever seen before, Ned was impressed. Skelton’s method may have been rough and intimidating, but in this instance it seemed to get results. His suit was no doubt aided by the backing of fiendishly grinning henchmen festooned with sharp blades.

  Despite the encouragement, the river was still clear of any vessel that may have been used by the Spaniard, and Skelton was beginning to tug his black beard in a most alarming fashion, eyeing Ned speculatively as you would a calf for jointing.

  “Y’ sure he’s here abouts Ned? I canna see the Spanish peacock.” There was a very ominous rumble to that question. The hunt so far had wetted Skelton’s anticipation of revenge, but the lack of prey was forcing him to look for other prospects.

  Ned contemplated the chance of a dive into the river. He wasn’t what could be described as a good swimmer, but he could keep afloat and move at a respectable pace if he really had to. That was a skill which most Londoners, and even the wherry men, lacked. Some wit at Court had commented that the difference between a Londoner and a lump of iron in the water was that the iron floated longer, and was worth rescuing.

  A loud cry from the lead wherry directed their attention to a four man boat scuttling along the river at a fast pace. The problem with Don Juan Sebastian was that he never really understood the English. The Spaniard should have spent more time studying them, rather than that just dismissing them as lower in the order of God’s creatures than the cockroach. For one thing, no English friar would be caught dead working. It just didn’t happen. That being an excepted fact, if you had a boatload of five monks rowing for all their worth, ergo sic probatur, it had to be the Spaniard.

  The chase was on again and all the Norfolk retainers called and yipped in either excitement or anticipation as the wherries surged ahead in pursuit. The other Norfolk craft was in front of Ned’s vessel by a couple of lengths. Fewer passengers gave it a better speed, though it could have been that one of the northerners was leaning forward from the prow with his sword out screaming in maniacal delight, urging them on.

  The gap between them started at around two hundred yards, but it was diminishing fast. Even in the closing darkness of the night Ned could see the waving frantic gestures of Don Juan Sebastian as he urged his oarsmen on to greater efforts. If he made it to the bridge and through the race, there was a chance he could escape them amongst the evening traffic on the far side.

  Their lead wherry pushed the pace. Ned had never seen such rowing. He wondered what the northerners had used for encouragement—no doubt a similar suggestion to Skelton’s. The distance was narrowing. It was fifty yards now and Don Juan Sebastian could be heard urging his oarsmen on. Ahead the risks of the infamous tidal race of London Bridge beckoned.

  Last year Ned had shot the fearsome race when it was at its most deadly, in the company of the Meg and Rob Black. He had never been so terrified, each moment expecting their craft to be smashed again the oaken piers that framed the bridge starlings, or sucked down into the foaming torrent that clawed hungrily at their boat. What made the experience even worse was that that Black siblings clearly enjoyed the whole ordeal.

  This time he was not so worried. The tidal race that surged back and forth between the piers of the bridge was at a lower ebb so the drop was only a few feet, still risky for the unwary but not suicidal.

  Then they gained an unforeseen advantage. The Spaniard had been so taken in the nearing pursuit, he hadn’t kept a proper watch out and his boat slammed into some half submerged flotsam, upsetting his rowers who tumbled over backwards. A halloing cry of exultation sounded from the forward Norfolk boat, now mere yards away, and the sword wielding retainer, standing at the bow leaped across the gap, landing heavily.

  Ned had witnessed a brief taste of the northerners close combat skills earlier in the day, and where as he wasn’t that keen to face any of then in a dark alley, this was a different field of battle. It seemed their master Skelton had been too keen on revenge and had failed to mention the problems of facing the Spaniard.

  Despite the collision Don Juan Sebastian wasn’t taken by surprise. He must have already drawn his dagger before the Norfolk retainer leapt. For, as the fellow pushed himself up, blade swinging, the Spaniard closed the short distance and plunged his blade into the northerner’s vitals. Ned could see the look of sudden wide–eyed shock as the steel withdrew. Don Juan Sebastian didn’t bother with another blow. The man was a good as dead. Instead, as the body toppled forward, he caught it under it’s shoulder and straightening up, threw the carcass back to the vessel from which it came but a moment before.

  The sudden and terminal return of one of their number unsettled the crew of the lead Norfolk boat. They might have been fearsome foes in a brawl or skirmish, but on the water they’d just seen one of theirs slain in a trice. The next man wasn’t so keen to board and just made slashing swipes that missed by a yard. Ned might have been expected to have a twinge of sympathy for the dead, except that it was Master Choker, and he had his own thoughts on what needed to be done. Unlike the rest of the company, killing the Spaniard wasn’t high on his list. He wanted to find out what was going on, and if that meant getting onboard that wherry, then so be it.

  In the scuffle the flow of the river had carried all the boats within twenty yards of the tide race. With the first wherry now out of contention, it was up to Ned’s one for any success, and he wasn’t going to let Don Juan Sebastian get away, not for anything. Ned once more vainly wished for the brace of pistols he’d left in the possession of the punks earlier in the day. That was definitely the last time he travelled without them. Instead, he unbuckled his sword and drew his poniard, then balanced himself on the front ledge of the wherry in a half crouch to keep his balance.

  In the meantime Skelton was roaring his frustration at his suddenly reluctant minions and gesturing meaningfully with his heavy backsword. “Damn y’ for a pox riddled weak kneed puttock. Pull them oars like y’ pull your pizzles. Put us closer to that boat!”

  Well threats worked up to point but since the dead body tumbled back, none were too keen to close the distance. Time for some inducement thought Ned. “If you get us close, five angels are yours!”

  Success! The wherry pushed past its stalled companion and Ned leapt over the decreasing gap. He’d watched Don Juan Sebastian and he recalled the man’s natural ease with a blade from last year’s affair. Ned had also been busy in that time, learning off a master of defence, a veteran who’s main concern was survival on the battlefield, not pretensions of honour.

  So when Ned jumped it was not the Spaniard he was aiming for. Instead he slammed into one of the forward pair of rowers. The supposed monk had a brief instant to register dismay and surprise before Ned’s arrival tumbled him backwards onto the large basket in the prow, smashing it apart and spilling its contents into the waist. Ned gave him a s
avage smash across the face with his clenched fist and lashed out at the other forward oarsman with his blade. The steel edge gouged splinters from the oar hastily raised in parry as the man scrambled backwards.

  Don Juan Sebastian had noted the new arrival and gave a snarled command to the two remaining rowers. One about faced to help his master fend off another assault, while the larger of the two pulled out a wicked looking mace and swung it towards Ned’s head. The thing you had to remember in any fight was where your feet where. Many a fine warrior had been ignominiously slain because he hadn’t watched were he was treading. Sir John Chandos, the Black Prince’s feared henchman, had died like that with his foot tangled in a piece of clothing. Ned came a close second. His foot slipped on the spilled cargo and he fell forward under the swing of his opponent. The haft smashed into the back of his shoulder and the jarring pain numbed his arm, causing him to lose his blade. In the cramped space Ned was now in serious trouble. In a moment he would be outnumbered and weaponless. In desperation, he groped around the soggy clutter in the boats hold and grabbed whatever came to hand. It wasn’t his blade but it would have to do. Ned straightened up, ready to fling the missile at the grinning mace wielder. Then the boat gave a shuddering lurch and Ned slipped and fell over the side into the water.

  They’d hit the race! He struggled against the flow, but his right hand was still numb and the torrent tore at his lips, demanding entrance. Ned was forced against one of the oak trunks by the power of the river. It may have helped for he clawed his way up the water smoothed timber and wedged his clenched left hand into a crevice between two logs. The urgent demands for air overrode the pain, and Ned pulled his face out of the water’s loving embrace just enough to gulp down a breath or two, but the fighting against the pull of the tide was draining, and even for summer the water was too damned cold siphoning his warmth.

  The last sight that Ned recalled as he sank back, exhausted, into the surging waters of the Thames, was the grinning face of that smirking Spaniard. This was not at all what he wished for as his last vision before facing the Last Judgement!