Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

These wood panelled halls served every day as tournament field for the prizes and privilege that surrounded the King, his court, and all the royal officers who could dispense the rewards of patronage. Ned had witnessed the minor battles and disputes at the law courts between the lower members of competing factions, in the pursuit of land, title, revenge and occasionally, justice. After last year, he had realised that this was just the dogs squabbling over the scraps left by the rival lions of the court, as they fought and manoeuvred to bask in the unshadowed, splendour and generosity of the King’s Majesty.

He and his friends had been forced to make a choice of patron last year or suffer the terminal and unpleasant fate of traitors. It had been a knife edge balance at the final moment and Ned would be the first to admit that only the intercession of a kindly God had saved them. But the resulting reprieve had drawn them to the attention of some very dangerous people, for that saving act had firmly proclaimed their allegiance to the Boleyn faction. If that wasn’t enough, Ned in particular was now marked as an up and coming servant of Thomas Cromwell, the former secretary of the now disgraced and replaced Cardinal Wolsey.

In the months of service since, Ned had grown less sure of how crucial their discovery of the missing letters had been to securing Secretary Cromwell’s transfer to the King’s personal service. Cromwell was a clever man, deft at moving through the dangerous shoals of patronage and personality that had wrecked so many gifted men before. Thus Ned couldn’t believe that his master would leave any factional shift to sheer chance. In fact he’d never seen a man more thoroughly organised, or potentially ruthless. That last factor was the one Ned was currently nervously considering.

During the grim proceedings yesterday, he had run through all the possible options and as he reviewed them again in the bored warmth of the day, they looked no better. Ideally appealing to Lady Anne Boleyn or her father the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond would have been safer, considering their regard for Mistress Margaret Black, whom, it had been not so subtly hinted, supplied them with the latest in forbidden overseas literature-the sort of light reading that would have the present Lord Chancellor cheerfully striking the flint for a heretic’s faggots himself.

Heretical books, the bible translated into the English tongue; was the burning issue of his times. Where was a man supposed to stand on that, law or conscience? Did one loyally follow the lead of his monarch and Holy Mother Church? That in itself created a difficulty. His Majesty had relaxing his restriction on the publication of heretical books early this year. However the decision had been reversed and instead, now held to the rigid stance of the bishops and their good friend, Sir Thomas More. That being so, how could Ned safely rely on the evangelical connection of Lady Anne? Her father had more influence on the Privy Council than even Cromwell, except that Sir Thomas Boleyn was currently racing all over the kingdom, rallying support for the King’s latest petition. Only the King or God knew where the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond was to be found this week.

In a fit of desperation Ned had also very briefly considered whether an approach to the Earl of Suffolk may have worked. Sir Charles Brandon had the ear of the King and it was rumoured appreciated ‘generous gifts’. That narrow door of opportunity had unfortunately been slammed shut. The Earl’s wife Mary Tudor, the former queen of France and sister of the King, absolutely despised Anne Boleyn and made it very plain that any friends of the Boleyns could only expect a helping hand to the gibbet-especially any named ‘Black’ or ‘Bedwell’ due to an unfortunate run-in with the Earl’s men last year.

Scratching Wiltshire and Suffolk from the list only left the Earl of Norfolk, Sir Thomas Howard, an eminent member of the Royal Court and veteran of the wars with the Scots. There was a firm family connection to grasp since he was the uncle of Lady Anne, his sister having married Thomas Boleyn. Unfortunately, due to those same circumstances last year, Ned wasn’t amongst those Norfolk favoured. Ned had, for his own survival, foiled a possible plot of Sir Thomas Howard, involving Cardinal Wolsey and Lady Anne. Who the intended target was still left Ned confused, lost in a maze of treachery and murder, though the whole affair had tended to confirm the reputation of Lord Howard for cunning and double dealing. The current jape at the Inns of Court was if any snake followed following the course of his lordship’s schemes, it would be tied in knots. Anyway he wasn’t sure the Earl’s man, Skelton, viewed Ned with any fondness since the Grafton Regis incident and his wounding.

So out of them all Ned was left to the dubiously good graces of Councillor Thomas Cromwell, a man on the rise and a dangerous competitor in the fatal game of court intrigue.

It was closer to midday when eventually some arrogant snot of an usher from his lord’s secretary, Ralph Sadleyer, waved him into the inner sanctum. As when he had last seen him, Cromwell was hard at work surrounded by clerks sorting through various papers of state or reports. The man was definitely in his element. From Ned’s viewpoint, all the participants moved with a timed synchronicity that reminded him of one of those new mechanical time clocks. The centre of it all was of course Cromwell’s table where he weighed and judged every scrap of parchment that passed before his perceptive eye.

Ned approached and made the appropriate courtly bow of deference. He was certainly getting a lot of practice at this. His acknowledged ‘good lord’ barely flicked an eyebrow at the show of respect and continued with his inspection of current matters on his table. Ned had sufficient experience of the man to know that this was part of a testing process. You remained still and patient without flinching and in due course would be accorded the priority your petition deserved. At least he had got in the door-some could wait for days…or weeks.

The slow minutes crawled by and Ned stayed very still, concentrating on the low murmur of the clerks and the cracks in the tiles. No doubt one or more had already presented some news on his rapid appearance. His reception depended on what Cromwell regarded as important, for him, or the King.

“Master Bedwell I have been told one of my servants impounded a vessel on my authority, in the name of the King, our Sovereign Lord. Could you explain why I would wish to do that?” It could have been considered a quiet voice though it rang sufficiently through the panelled chamber. If Ned had not already been accustomed to its snap of assumed command, he would have jumped at the shock. Instead he gave a lower bow and said nothing. Prior experience had taught him it was safer to allow Cromwell to vent his displeasure before giving any explanation. “Master Bedwell, this deposition also states that you refused to allow an officer of the Lord Chancellor’s access to the impounded vessel. Would this be true?”

Ned continued to graze the tile floor with his doffed cap and clamped his lips tight.

“This presumption has left Sir Thomas More exceedingly vexed, a point he repeatedly makes in his missive to me.” It was very difficult to ascertain from Cromwell’s tone whether he was upset at the usurpation of his authority or amused that it discomforted Lord Chancellor More.

Ned took it as a finger’s breadth of leeway and began his explanation. “Councillor, I admit I did act impulsively. I plead the urgency of the matter and its connection to Our Sovereign Majesty’s honour and the Great Petition. I feared that the Chancellor’s pursuivant was not cognisant of the full import of his actions.” Ned hoped this was good start. It was always difficult to judge the right approach, balancing grovelling with flattery and the flag of self interest.