Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Master Scarlet Plumes thumped one hand into the other and made another short round of blustering threats, then after promising an imminent return, stomped off the ship leading his disappointed band into the darkening streets of the city. Despite this abrupt retreat in the face of Ned’s bluff and bluster, Master Scarlet Plumes wasn’t a total fool. He left a pair of men at the end of the dock, along with the forlornly abandoned customs men. It was getting quite crowded down at the end of the wharf, what with the usual London audience keen for any show.

Ned pursed his lips and shook his head. This was just the first round. Time for some more answers. He turned to face the still angry features of Meg Black. “Who was More’s odious minion?” In all that bluster and phlegm, the Scarlet feathered buffoon had singularly failed in manners and Ned still didn’t know his name.

His newly discovered business partner, Margaret Black, finally left off her glowering towards the lit windows of the Customs House and gave a reluctant shrug. “Jefferys introduced him as Sir Roderick Belsom. He didn’t impress me, but the two customs men fawned all over him as if he was the Second Coming.”

Ned considered her reply. That name was familiar. It was possible that he’d heard it mentioned before at the Inns. If memory served him it was in connection to an illegally seized inheritance somewhere past Chelsea. Details were elusive and he doubted if it had any connection to their current problem. “Well Meg, I’ve delayed the scarlet plumed toad for the next day or so. No doubt he’ll return soon enough with a warrant so we’d better have a more solid defence. What about guarding the ship and the crew?”

Meg Black gave the first real smile he’d seen since he entered this sorry affair. “That’s easy Ned. I’ve hired Gryne’s Men for the week. They’ll be here soon.”

He gave a slow nod of appreciation. She really was a clever girl. That definitely settled security. It’d take more than a waved warrant and a couple of brawny, livery men to shift any of the fearsome denizens of the Gryne Dragone in Southwark.

While some men in the city made their reputations in trade or as bestowers of patronage, Captaine Gryne had taken a different path. He had recognised a fundamental truth of advancement in modern England. No matter how much the gentry of the court wanted to portray themselves as learned and genteel, their rank was still due to the number of stout men in their retinue. The Captaine had seen an opportunity in this need and ensured that, given the right price, he could provide any size retinue-men experienced in the real arts of war, who could supply either intimidation or martial presence to even the most insipid bunch of milksops.

Since Ned’s recent reluctant involvement with Cardinal Wolsey’s plots, he was double fortunate to count Captaine Gryne as a friend. While the city was not a festering sewer of rapine and violence, as some friars painted it, only the most naive of rural bumpkins would blithely traipse through the streets without precautions. Ned though had more need of prudence than the average citizen. For one thing, Canting Michael, the lord of the Southwark bearbaiting pits, still held an unreasoning grudge against him. Without the protection of Gryne’s bloody reputation, Ned would have choked out his life on any one of the back lanes of Southwark or Bermondsey by now. Then there was Earless Nick, but as his daemon counselled, best not to dwell on unsolvable problems.

The choice was sound, though he was curious regarding the cost of retaining expertise in intimidation-Gryne didn’t work for pennies. That simple fact recalled his need for a discussion about the practices of trade and profits with his business partner. Sooner was better than later. Ned knew an opportunity when he saw it and exuding all his newly learned courtly gallantry, offered to escort her home. Unfortunately it was politely, and he felt reluctantly, declined. It seemed that Margaret Black took her responsibilities very seriously. She wasn’t going to leave until the vessel, cargo and crew had some protection. Meg did however pull out of her ever present satchel a pot of what she swore was a sovereign remedy for his bruises. Ned accepted the offering but felt he’s lost out on the compromise. His shoulder daemon prompted him to play the gallant knight and stay, whispering of possibilities in providing comfort to a vulnerable, frightened young girl. However his better angel sagely reminded him that news of his ‘claim’ was speeding its way to a host of royal officers and Privy Councillors, and he’d best head off and do some serious grovelling to his Uncle Richard and his patron, Thomas Cromwell, before the wings of rumour trumped him.

***

It was a beautiful summer day, the sort that dimmed the memories of the cruel winter and erratic spring. Today the warmth spread its benefice to all, giving a day that should be spent galloping through the green fields and small woods that lay to the north of the city, celebrating the exhilaration of life and all the pleasures that it offered. Hunting, drinking and sparkling blue grey eyes were the first three that sprang to mind for Ned.

However, not today. Not for him.

Today he sat bored and impatient, watching the slow march of time by the crawling spray of light from the high window across the tiled floor. Ned supposed he only had himself to blame for his situation. Perhaps he could have come up with a more plausible delay for More’s pursuivants. Thus did the usual excuse ‘it had seemed such a good idea at the time’ transform into the promises of a drunkard.

Now as the day slipped away, bored, worried and anxious, he’d all the time he never wanted for those second and third thoughts to crop up and wave the banner of rebellion. What was going on? What if he’d used another ploy? What if they’d sunk the boat, moved the bodies, or arranged an accidental fire-all those wonderfully stupid and impulsive ideas that struck one as so sensible and obvious at the time, but soon after led to an avalanche of recrimination and regret, even if they had worked before.

His better angel nudged a past memory into view. The affair of the toads and the tankard had been one of those regrets. His only defence was that the offence occurred when he was considerably younger. It had taken old Father Wilkins weeks to get over it without shaking, months even before he safely sampled another ale. And the upshot was the old man glaring at him in suspicion for all of the following year during every Mass.

Just getting into this well appointed chamber had created its own burdens. He hoped that Margaret Black was appreciating his sacrifices. The prompt missive from Uncle Richard to Thomas Cromwell, asking for an immediate audience, had cost him dearly. His uncle had gained his several pounds of flesh, sentencing Ned to a week of wading through a pile of old legal pleadings, to rewrite them from the archaic Norman-French into modern English. As to why, he’d not slightest idea. It seemed part of a pet project of Uncle Richard’s, so a labouring amongst the dusty tomes he must serve. As for other services like sniffing out advantages, well Master Richard Rich may be a very canny lawyer, but the hint that this would inconvenience Sir Thomas More had his instant support.

Ned could curse and rail about his having to once more dive into the perilous drama of the court, and damned satisfying it would, be muttered his daemon. Still it wouldn’t help. Ned had to admit it was an act of free will and a consequence of friendship that he undertook this task. Nor could he claim he was naively wandering into the lion’s den. He was eighteen now and for most of the past decade he’d watched the true workings of the kingdom under their Tudor monarch. If he’d kept any childhood illusions, they’d have been soon lost in service at the Inns of Court. Power and patronage were the twin hearts of the beast.