The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  “Yield Don Juan Sebastian. Your plot is finished.” Ned tried to wave his hand above the wall. Surely at thirty yards, backlit by the lanterns, Skelton should be able to tell the difference. A ricocheting stone chip told him, probably not! Who the hell where they aiming at?

  With no other option he once more levelled the pistol at the snarling Spaniard. “It’s either Skelton or me, Don Juan Sebastian.” Under the circumstances, Ned thought it a very reasonable offer.

  “Not you, Bedwell.” The Spaniard shook his head in denial, then he threw his sword at Ned. The hilt knocked the pistol from his hand and the Spaniard dove across the tower, scooping up the spluttering lantern. Ned tried to get up, but as his cap cleared the parapet, a fusillade of shots reminded him of the unseen harquebusiers on Byward Tower. Damn, couldn’t they see the Spaniard?

  “I leave you to hell, Bedwell!”

  Several events now transpired together. The powder flashed into fitful life, and Don Juan Sebastian leapt onto the crenulated recess in the wall, lantern in hand. Ned dropped his dagger, and ignoring the splatter of balls, threw his body towards the flaming trail, arms outstretched. His hands frantically beat at the sparking powder, trying to scatter the small leaping flames as the grains of powder fizzled and burned like miniature demons. Then as he was consumed in his urgent task, Ned noticed another peril. Don Juan Sebastian, grinning like a fiend, had tossed the lantern before diving off the wall. It described a gentle arc, flying overhead in the direction of the open barrel. In that instant Ned had two choices—try and intercept the lantern or leap after his enemy. Instead fate intervened. He tripped on the body of the axe man and fell against the far rampart and the top of Lion’s Tower roared, flashing fiery orange and black.

  Ned rolled back away from the wall, coughing fit to choke. His eyes watering, he tried to peer through the cloud of sulphurous smoke. If this was hell then he was going to have a big problem—breathing. His first daemon hove into view and a long lanky hand reached out grabbing his shoulder. Ned would have screamed but hawking up the muck in this throat had precedence.

  “Why, the Lord has seen fit t’ bless me. Tis Red Ned!”

  Great! An eternity of a Canting Michael shaped daemon. His sins truly must be weighty.

  The apparition became more solid as another hand snaked out from the darkness and secured his right arm in a vicelike grip. The pale face of his newly acquired daemon thrust forward, inspecting his blacked features with a curiously hungry intensity. “Red Ned, ‘ave y’ done ‘ll the powder o’ the devil?”

  What a stupid question from a daemon! Ned nodded and coughed and would have collapsed but for the support of the clenching hands.

  “On the roofs, arghh! The fireworks...to set them off.” That’s all he got out before a violent fit of coughing strangled his breath.

  “Thank y’, Red Ned. I’ll leave y’ now, though I’s still ‘ave claim on y’. That’s naught settled.” The grim apparition disappeared and Ned collapsed to the stone floor, trying to quell his rebellious stomach. The stench of brimstone was overwhelming. Slowly both the smoke and his sight cleared and the London air grew sweet as he eagerly sucked it in. Ned crawled over to the other side of the Tower. Amazingly the barrel still stood in place, covered in a layer of thick black soot, as was the rest of the ramparts. He gave it a tap and it fell over, spewing a plume of fine black dust. He could have cursed. He could have laughed. What he did do was shake his head in wry amusement. Dr Caerleon had been right—greed had held sway and became it’s own downfall. Lady Fortuna had blessed him. Don Juan Sebastian’s culminating trump card was one of the powder sorter’s remixed barrels.

  ***

  Chapter 35. The Shipmaster’s Cabin, Again, The Ruyter, Morning, 11th June

  Ned pushed himself upright with a heartfelt groan. From the incessant ringing of the bells, and the light pouring in through the open shutter, it must be the seven of the clock in the morning of Sunday 11th June. The day looked bright and glorious, but he didn’t feel it at all. The bruises hurt, all of them. His throat felt like sand paper, and the burns on his hands stung as he flexed them. As for his aching ribs, he preferred not to dwell on the possibilities. Having taken stock of his painful catalogue, and now a touch less bleary eyed, Ned bleakly surveyed his accommodation. Well surprise, surprise! Back in the damned shipmaster’s cabin again! Though for the first time in a week his muzzy instinct no longer trembled at the hungry presence of ghosts. Maybe their souls had been assuaged by last night’s red handed vengeance. Or perhaps ending of the affair with the Gonne powder had liberated their spirits. Either way a touch of ease flickered within him.

  Well this was the day that would see them freed or condemned. Ned had prepared as much as he could. The rest was up to the providence of the Lord and the good sense of the Lord Chancellor. One he could pray for while the other was…uncertain. As he eased himself off the bunk a light rap sounded from the door, and his temporary retainer, Ouze, let himself in. Gryne’s men had performed many varied tasks this last week, ranging from protection to whore mastery and door wardens. This time Ouze was acting the chamber groomsman and arrived bearing a complete set of fresh clothes. That was doubly welcome. After the continued fracas and wear and tear, he was unsure whether he had anything left suitable to wear to a court summons.

  In the light of the morning the dress doublet acquired a subtle shimmer that made him reach out and finger the cloth in amazement. This wasn’t any of his apparel. The rich silver thread brocade was well beyond his means. An intricate pattern of silk embroidery caught his eye. It was set above the heart, just below the left shoulder and no more than a few inches across. It didn’t have to be any larger. It would appear that the Duke of Norfolk had kept at least part of his promise. Ned was now shielded by the Howard crest, so long as he accepted the gift.

  That was a difficult decision. He was supposed to be Cromwell’s man. His good lord hadn’t so far been very supportive in this last week, except for the tainted writ that had them scrabbling all over the place, dealing with the Queen’s plot. Serving members of the Privy Council could be a very thankless task, as he’d found. The place was awash with rivalry and deadly intrigue. So what was he to make of this gift of fine clothing? Ned hadn’t received anything from Cromwell, not even via the usual heavy hand of his Uncle Richard. For a man so attuned to the shifting currents of favour and fortune, that was unusual. The only message was the writ, and the handing over, seemingly, to the dubious friendship of Skelton and his master.

  Ned took out the much used piece of parchment from his leather script, and once more examined the document. It looked the same as when it was presented. So what was he supposed to read into it, apart from the obvious words. Codes were unlikely. So what else?

  It charged him to first examine the Queen’s household, then investigate the matter of the murder of the Hanse and anything connected. For a writ that was extremely broad and irregular, and could in the wrong hands, be utilised for all manner of abuses. His daemon prodded him to examine it afresh. Usually such freedom of action was highly irregular, unless you paid for it. With an effort, Ned pushed his memory back to the start of the week, to the interview with his lord and master, and then cursing, leant closer into the shaft of light.

  In the short space of time betwixt Ned’s plea and when the writ was thrust into his eager hands, Cromwell had only penned a few lines. He couldn’t have written it all, and now it was as plain as day. Damn him for an unobservant fool. This could’ve helped unravel the mess earlier! From the style of the lettering, Sir Thomas had already filled out the bulk of the warrant before. All he had done in Ned’s presence was the last codicil regarding the murder and added his signature. The Royal official had already sniffed out a plot and appeared to be a few steps ahead of everyone else.

  Ned’s prior association with Cromwell had already taught him the man was all cold cunning and calculation. The normal rules of chivalric honour and usage didn’t apply. As his daemon hinted, it was even possible
Cromwell had arranged the foiling of this scheme to gain the good graces of Norfolk. His lord and master had done nothing to protect or deflect Ned from Skelton. Now he considered it, Norfolk’s man did arrive with a providentially large retinue, and had a lot more knowledge of the complex situation than Ned would’ve thought. Damn these decadent times! They were awash with treachery and deceit! His daemon promised that this two handed act of his ‘good lord’ wasn’t going to be forgotten!

  One part still had him puzzled. How did Canting Michael fit into this? Who did he serve? After the dramatic conclusion on Lion’s Tower, Tam had half carried him down to the gate, and filled him in on a few of the more bizarre details. It had been Canting’s men who had been fighting Don Juan Sebastian’s monks outside Lion bulwark. They had broken through and surged across the bridge. Their leader waved his own Privy Council warrant before Ben Robinson, and passed into the Tower proper, in the hunt for monks. So Ned’s vision on the rampart hadn’t been his imagination. Canting had popped up too often in this affair for it to be chance. As to the connecting circumstances, Ned would have to sort that out later.

  Thinking about convenient circumstances automatically lead him to Mistress Black. Her advanced knowledge and more than excellent timing with events couldn’t be ascribed to the providential hand of God! That two–faced, conniving apothecary’s apprentice knew too damned much! Where, why and how, he promised himself to find out.

  Finally Ned came to a decision. He donned the gifted doublet. Then he hung another earlier present around his neck, a silver chain with the badge of Cromwell, and to finish the proclamation of his allegiances, the crested ring inherited from his mother. He didn’t care that More was known to loath his family, or that it could be considered a red rag to a bull. He was mostly proud of being a Rich, even if only a bastard one.

  Ned Bedwell was ready for battle.

  ***

  Chapter 36. The Lord Chancellor, Westminster, Morning, 11th June

  The Lord Chancellor of England, Sir Thomas More, had a formidable reputation. He’d been high in the King’s service since the Evil May Day riots in 1517, and in that time had served in many capacities—as a legal advisor, authority on religious matters, renowned writer and friend of thinkers, ambassador and long time member of the Privy Council. It had even been rumoured at the Inns of Court that he was the author of His Majesty’s great work condemning the heresies of Luther, though that last suggestion was only whispered. His Majesty took great pride in his appellation by the Pope of ‘Defender of the Faith’.

  Sir Thomas was a man entering his fifth decade, and his dark brown hair now displayed faint streaks of white that gave him the air of experienced maturity. Despite his slightly less than middle height, the Lord Chancellor projected an aura of command and wisdom. It may have been the flecked grey eyes that radiated both fierce intellect and firm dedication, or perhaps it his well known reputation as a merciless foe of any who questioned the Church or his judgments.

  It didn’t matter which. Ned Bedwell felt distinctly nervous as he bowed before the man second in place in the Kingdom after the King’s Majesty. His only consolation was that, in this, he was not alone. Both the Black siblings were a pace behind him, flanked by a clearly injured Master Robinson and a grinning Skelton. Ned only hoped that each had a fine appreciation of their parts in this performance, and in the case of Margaret Black, that was a desperate prayer. Just how far would gratitude outweigh the chance of revenge.

  The waiting had been stretching his nerves to the edge of snapping, and conversation with his company had only been possible in low voiced whispers to avoid the wide ears of the ushers. The delay, they were informed, was due to the Lord Chancellor hearing morning Mass. How very nice and Christian of him! Ned wondered what sort of service took three hours. Perhaps they could have attended one as well, rather than cooling their heels at the door of his audience chamber at Westminster.

  Finally Sir Thomas More fixed Ned with his intense gaze, and the apprentice lawyer suppressed the urge to swallow. He was well aware of how delicate their situation was. While much improved on yesterday, the odds were still evenly balanced. If this were a fight in the baiting pit, Ned wouldn’t be that keen to place silver on his chances.

  The Lord Chancellor finished his frowning survey of the company and of the letter in his hand before passing it to an usher. “Master Bedwell, I have been informed by my fellow councillor, Thomas Cromwell, that you can explain the circumstance of the affray last night ,and of the matters concerning the seizure of the Ruyter of Bremen.”

  It was a well modulated voice, practiced in speaking from years in the Law Courts, and it filled the audience chamber, not in anyway loudly or brash, but with the accustomed echo of command and expected obedience. Ned straightened up and he noted the flicker of attention to his chain. No doubt the Lord Chancellor had already taken account of Norfolk’s emblem, as well as the attendance of Skelton, and he could have no uncertainty as to Meg Black’s allegiance. The blazon of the Boleyn’s was affixed to her hooded French cap. As he had found at court, it was not always what you said, but what you wore as you said it.

  “I can my lord.”

  “Perhaps you could start with the whereabouts of my pursuivant, Sir Roderick Belsom?”

  There was, perhaps, a touch of asperity in that command that raised Ned’s hope. It was possible that More hadn’t heard any more than rumour of last night’s debacle. The Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian, could have filled him in with a more accurate version, but his whereabouts were currently unknown.

  Ned adopted a very sorrowful expression. “My lord, it is my very sad duty to report that Sir Roderick fell in defence of His Majesties Realm. He is a man much missed, and this investigation would have been lost without his direction.” From Ned’s mournful face you would have thought that his dearest friend had died.

  The Lord Chancellor pursed his lips in concern. This did not appear to be welcome news. “How did this sorry event transpire, Master Bedwell?”

  This was it, all or nothing. Ned eased out a breath and began a highly edited explanation. “As you are aware my lord, Sir Roderick had been charged with investigating the murders on board the Ruyter of Bremen, while I had been given the same task by Privy Councillor Cromwell. As we were both servants of His Majesty, we decided to combine our efforts.”

  If Ned read the Lord Chancellor correctly, the crinkling of an eyebrow indicated that this did not fit in with established practice, or his prior knowledge of the facts. “My lord, I have a signed warrant from Sir Roderick, signed before witnesses, setting this forth.”

  Ned presented the document for the Lord Chancellor’s perusal. He could tell that the Pursuivant had failed to mention its existence to his master, who read through it thoroughly, obviously looking for loopholes. Perhaps Sir Roderick should have been more honest in his reports to his master.

  “It is his mark.” This was a reluctant acknowledgement, but Sir Thomas had to concede the point.

  “My lord, we tracked the heinous slaying back to two men who worked at the Tower, where Sir Roderick had also discovered these miscreants were also involved in some foreign plot with a Hanse merchant regarding His Majesty’s Gonne powder stores.”

  Now this did get a response. Sir Thomas gave a nod of limited acceptance, but Ned could tell he had all the Lord Chancellor’s attention now.

  “Together with Sir Welkin Blackford, Master of the King’s Ordinance, we set a trap for the conspirators last night.”

  That also gained a further nod. Sir Thomas More wasn’t giving anything away it seemed.

  “From what we can ascertain, the two powder sorters, Watkins and Edwards, gave access to a party of foreigners to explode the Tower magazine.” Ned was watching carefully. The Lord Chancellor refused to take the bait.

  “In the affray, Sir Welkin and Sir Frederick seized the traitors, who in despair of their capture threw a lantern into an open barrel of Gonne powder, slaying many.” Ned bowed his head and made the sign of
the cross.

  The Lord Chancellor frowned at the retelling. It was plain he found the tale difficult to accept. “Can Sir Welkin verify this record of events?”

  Ned was about to speak, but Master Robinson hobbled into view, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. “My Lord Chancellor, I fear not. He was also slain in the explosion. I am Sir Welkin’s clerk, my lord. He set me to investigate irregularities with the Gonne powder records, and in that capacity I was seized and held prisoner by the two traitors. In my hearing they openly gloated about their evil deeds, both the murders and the attempted treachery.”

  That sounded so much a better statement than the frank admission that Sir Welkin was shot trying to escape during the Lion Tower assault.

  As a court room lawyer, Sir Thomas was excellent. Not a wince or twitch at this very reworked, but impossible to disprove, version of events.

  “Did these miscreants ever mention who they were in league with?” A question of some concern to the Lord Chancellor, as it would be to any Royal official such as Blackford or Belsom.

  Master Robinson, having been in the King’s service for some years, was unlikely to fall for that trap. “I fear not, my lord. They made reference to foreign gold and obliging friends across the waters, but mentioned no names other than the Hanse merchant.”

  It would also seem that Norfolk was going to back up his promise, for now Skelton also took a step forward. “It’s as the clerk says m’ lord. They wer’ slain when the powder went. Tis nay a good way fo’ a man to go.” Skelton shrugged with evident regret at such an unmanly demise. It was a safe and bland statement of fact.

  More was a skilled player at Court. He could read volumes into the vast omissions in Skelton’s claim, but he only allowed himself a brief question. “I was not aware that my lord of Norfolk had an interest in this affair.”