Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Cromwell appeared to consider his plea for a moment and tapped the table with a finger as he swapped attention between the papers before him and Ned. “For an apprentice lawyer, Master Bedwell, you seem remarkably well acquainted with the mind of Our Sovereign Lord. Would you be so good as to enlighten this poor servant on His Majesty’s thinking regarding this affair?” The observation came out as crisp, dry and menacing. Ned fervently hoped it held an undertone of tolerant amusement.

“Councillor, it concerns information best kept close.”

That reply had Cromwell quirk his eyebrows into a more pensive frown before dismissing his cluster of clerks with a single command. Once the room had been cleared he waved Ned forward. “Why is it, Master Bedwell, that somewhere in this tale I suspect is the presence of your friend, Mistress Black?”

Ned was already sure that if pressed Cromwell could have come up with the complete manifest of the vessel at the centre of this and its list of owners, so he made no pretence of evasion. “She does figure prominently Councillor.”

Cromwell gave what might have been a sigh and signalled for Ned to continue. “I am sure that the Lord Chancellor has already supplied you with his reasons for wanting charge of any investigation?”

This received the smallest nod of acknowledgement Ned had yet seen. Briefly he wondered how many pages Sir Thomas More had churned out to justify his rights. He did have a reputation for excessive wordage and a very fast quill. His legal fees were said to be outstandingly large.

“I’ve inspected the scene and I believe that there are sufficient inconsistencies that the zeal of the Lord Chancellor’s minions would miss or ignore to the detriment of the King in his pursuit of the resolution of his Great Matter.” That waved banner of royal interest acquired a flicker of Cromwell’s heavy eyebrow, encouraging Ned to continue. “I will not shock you Councillor, with the gruesome details of what I saw, just a few facts.”

For a man who had, by repute, served in the Italian wars, Ned doubted anything short of the Apocalypse could shock Councillor Cromwell. Courtly custom stated that it was good form to imply genteel sensibilities even when it was known to be lacking. “Both the shipmaster and his nephew were slain the previous night. Then the murderers removed the clothing of the dead, made a cursory effort to clean up the site of the crime, and placed the naked bodies in the shipmaster’s cabin, in such a position as to lead to gross speculation and suspicion.”

Cromwell lent forward a little, his face still a blank mask. “Master Bedwell, I see no sign for our involvement…yet.”

It may have looked ominous but Ned had prepared for the next revelation. “Once the dead were so unnaturally disposed, the ship had no guards for at least four or five hours, and as far as I can tell, nothing was removed or taken. And some of the cargo is assigned to a member of the Royal Court.”

This last statement had Cromwell suddenly very interested, if only for the royal connection. He peered once more at his sheaf of papers, finger still tapping. Ned was silently praying his lord and master could put the clues together, after all every merchant in London knew the reputation of the city riverside. Any item, even a stick of wood left unguarded for less than a minute, could vanish. If an object of so little worth was at risk then an entire unprotected vessel and cargo represented a veritable treasure trove of opportunity. Whatever one thought of the docks of London, they were not renowned as the abode of saints. He’d heard one evangelical fellow claim that the waterside taverns were the ‘nests of Satan where the owls of impiety lurk and where all evil is hatched, and blown up by the bellows of intemperance and incontinence. Creating a veritable rat’s nest that breeds thieveries conspiracies, common conjurations, detractions and defamations’. He’d always thought it an unfair slander, after all the dock men and sailors had to drink somewhere.

Cromwell’s tapping stopped as he rubbed a freshly barbered chin. “There could be some interest in this. Anything else, Master Bedwell?”

This was said in similar tones to Cromwell’s first statement, just maybe this time with a hint of curiosity. At least it appeared to Ned the baited hook was tugged.

“Two further parts. Firstly, the ship and crew are from the Hanse League. As I’ve heard at the Inns of Court, His Majesty’s appeal is making slow progress both here and across the waters.” As a statement of fact that was pretty bland and safe, thought from the rumours he heard the words used were more like ‘stalled’ or ‘dead’ rather than just ‘slow’.

“Councillor, the Hanse merchants of the Steelyard consider themselves amongst His Majesties most ardent and loyal servants.” That was a further consolidation of fact. Everyone knew of the connections of the Hanse with Lady Anne Boleyn. Cromwell accepted it with nary a twitch.

“Although they do not control armies, the Hanse do hold the trade routes that armies rely upon for the maintenance of effort, timber, salt, leather, iron and armaments. They’ve sympathy for Our Sovereign’s plight and could be extended to other princes and lords in the German Lands to the benefit of His Majesty.” Ned left it there. He didn’t have to say that if the current problem was handled indelicately, any sympathy would evaporate.

Cromwell gave a short nod of acknowledgement. It was common knowledge that the situation in the German lands was precarious for the Hapsburg Emperor Charles V. Too many of the German princes had come out in open support for the heretical ideas of Martin Luther and like minded preachers. That religious chasm made pursuing Imperial Catholic ambitions…awkward.

Over the past months Ned had found that Cromwell expected a modicum of worldly intelligence in his servants, so he tried to keep up to date on the to-ing and fro-ing of the burgeoning religious quarrel. Recently their new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, in his latest tract on the pernicious evil of heresy, claimed that the radical Lutherans were solely responsible for the Imperial army’s disgraceful sack of Rome a few years ago. Supposedly the German Landsknechts were said to have howled heretical insults and threats at the Pope while he cowered in the fortress of San Angelo and sacked St Peter’s, stripping the papal throne. The fact that the army was also made up, in a large part, of devoutly Catholic Spaniards and Sicilians who had held priests to ransom, looted churches and raped nuns, seemed to have escaped the notice of the author. Ned didn’t need a book to see what Councillor Cromwell really thought of that pernicious pronouncement. Ned’s previous work for his new master highlighted his sympathies.

And so he laid out his second bait. “Also the people of the city whole heartedly backed the mood of the last Parliament. They are dismayed that one, who while born here, has been so aloof to their interests. It could be a useful gesture to show that there are others in the King’s confidence who have a better regard for their fervent loyalty.”

There, it was very carefully implied. London wanted a patron or a protector and Ned didn’t have to spell out the rewards due to the man who reigned in the excesses of the Lord Chancellor. He’d no doubt that Cromwell had already picked up sufficient hints of the growing dissatisfaction and was preparing his own plans for discomforting his rival on the Privy Council. Then Ned gave what he prayed was his trump card, based on a stray hint from Meg Black. “Lastly, the ship carries a large consignment listed to the Earl of Ormond, for his lands in Ireland.”

His nominal master paused in thought and his quill feather twitched slightly. Ned said a silent prayer. This should clinch it. The Irish lord with the bulk of the freight had another title, Earl of Wiltshire, Thomas Boleyn, father of the King’s favourite, ahh, companion, Lady Anne.