Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

After his pause Cromwell seizing a nearby document, and with quill in hand, added a few lines of script. Ned, who could only observe the waving tip as it marched across the page, felt distinctly nervous. His master had come to a very abrupt decision. He would have preferred to give his secondary argument or even his backup pleading than see such a rush of action. Cromwell completed his work and with dexterous skill juggled the seal and wax, firmly imprinting his authority.

“Master Bedwell.” Cromwell thrust the signed and sealed writ off the table toward Ned who caught it and gave a low bow of thanks. “You are dismissed, but I expect this matter cleared up within the week. The Great Petition to his Holiness in Rome, Pope Clement, is to be finalised this Sunday. You will not bother me again till after that and you have fulfilled the requirements of the writ. Go.”

Still in a half bow, Ned made his way backwards out of the chamber. The ordeal was over and he had a legal commission to investigate the murders. Let Sir Roderick Belsom choke on that! He even smiled at the officious usher as he strode happily into the midday sunlight, heading out of the Westminster complex. Suddenly the day was looking so much better!

***

Ned sat at a table at the Bee Skep Tavern by Aldgate, and morosely took another mouthful of their famous dark sweet ale. Regretfully its taste failed to bring a smile. Instead he once more went over the Writ of Commission from Councillor Thomas Cromwell. This was his fourteenth reading and the parchment still lacked any areas of useful ambiguity. He cursed himself as a fool for taking it, not that he had a choice. Damn Meg Black and her secret dealings! This writ was exactly what he had asked for-except of course that it wasn’t. Cromwell had excelled himself in his deviousness, giving Ned the most amazing commission. He was charged to investigate the foul murder and all and any associated matters to the benefit of the King’s justice. However at the end of seven days both he and Mistress Black were to present the results to the Lord Chancellor.

Oh very, very clever. If they succeeded then they gave the snub to More. Failure however made them sacrificial lambs, clearly presented as a gift to the triumphant More. And all under the legal sanction and seal of a royal official of the Privy Council. Oh that was just superb. Either way Cromwell won without open involvement. More would be deflected or appeased, and the Hanse would be placated. Thus victory all round-hurrah!

Ned bitterly reflected on his expendability. Flight to France was looking more and more appealing. However just to make sure Cromwell got his money’s worth out of the ink and wax, Ned was also required to investigate some irregularities within the Queen’s household as well. No mention of what, where or how, but he suspected that further instruction on that particular would be forthcoming from Uncle Richard. Just to complete his dark mood one of those damned friars was howling of destruction and damnation. Even the prospect of throwing another ragged screecher into the Aldgate Compter failed to pull Ned out of the dread fascination of the glaring script on the writ.

Then after another untasted sip, a large shadow blocked his view of the treacherous parchment. “Good day Ned. How’s the ale?” It was a loud, pleasant voice brimming with friendship and good humour.

“Huh, what ale?” Ned was jolted out of his morose appraisal by the question and beheld the welcoming grin of Rob Black, artificer at Houndsditch Foundry and the much larger brother of Margaret Black.

To passers-by, he looked a hefty lad, capable of lifting a horse on those broad shoulders. Rob probably was, but as with most large, amiable fellows, his ability to think was discounted by the populous. However behind those ‘come hither’ blue eyes and bulging muscles, that set the girls sighing, was a very shrewd intelligence, as Ned had found out. Give Master Black any problem involving the mechanical arts and you’d be surprised at his depth of knowledge or his ingenious solution. Anyway he was also a good companion to have beside you in a tavern or a brawl.

Taking the next seat, Rob knocked the side of the leather container with the back of a grimy hand. “Why Ned, the one you’re drinking in that tankard, you muddle head!”

Guiltily, Ned dropped the damning document and clutched at the betraying tankard. A small dollop of the brew leapt forth and splattered the table. “Oh…oh, ah this one. It’s all right I suppose.”

Rob looked surprised and shook his head in disbelief. “You better not let Emma hear you say that about her best double ale or next time she’ll serve you last week’s dregs.”

It was a fair warning. Ned glanced nervously toward the rear of the tavern in case the aforementioned lass should emerge in wrath waving a ladle. He took another more appraising slurp as Rob walked off to order a round. Given the distraction from his master’s ill considered commands, Ned finally noticed what he’d been sipping. It was a very good draught-possibly one of the best in the city, if the truth be told. The ale brimmed with a deep oaten creaminess and had been served in full measure, so unlike some other taverns he knew, drinking dens that were infamous for their measly vinegary offerings.

You’d never find Emma in the pillory for sour wormy ale. It was the talk of Aldgate that an ale wife so young was so skilled, and it didn’t stop at her brewing. The food at the tavern was certainly the best he’d eaten in this or any part of the city. Her venison and berry pies were particularly favoured and set one’s mouth salivating at the thought. Then of course her more physical aspects had gained their own audience. A regular troop of prospective swains filled the tables, all vying to attract a figure that moved with such pleasing grace, and those sparkling brown eyes that could tear a man’s soul. He’d heard that she was being courted by a foreign lad who worked by Tower Hill as cart builder. All he could say was lucky lad.

Rob Black returned and plonked himself down next to Ned and refilled his tankard.

“My thanks, Rob. I didn’t expect to see you this side of Sunday. I heard from Meg that you were going to be busy this week with a bronze pour for some new demi cannon?” Ned hoped he’d got the terminology correct. This was a mystical art to him. Rob came up with so many different processes and names that it was sometimes confusing to keep track.

In the meantime Rob Black had taken a few moments to half drain the leather jack in his hand and then released a great sigh of contentment. “That does a man good!”

Rob gave him a very quizzical, sidelong glance as he wiped the froth from his lips. “The demi cannons…it’s curious that you mention them. I have to talk to you about the Gonne casting.”

Ned felt confused at the change in conversation. He hadn’t ordered any great ordinance. That was for the King to afford. Anyway King Henry had firm ideas on who was allowed to own Gonnes. “What are you talking about?”

At his waspish reply, Rob seemed to mentally shift his perspective and thumped the side of his head, and shook it then blinked in an effort to join Ned in the here and now. “Sorry it’s those damned hammers. They’re still booming in my ears. Look Ned the pour has been delayed and Uncle Jonathan is in a right state, jumping up and down, pulling out the last of his hair in despair.”

Ned had met other parts of the extended Black clan and if he recalled it correctly, Uncle Jonathon was the cousin of Rob’s father, who ran the Gonne foundry and fabricators shop, beyond the walls at Houndsditch. He was a friendly fellow, remarkably similar in build and height to his nephew, though once met Uncle Jonathan was rarely forgotten. His booming voice was heard a dozen pace before his ruddy features and gleaming pate strode into view. The noise of his trade had left him almost as deaf as a post so a bellow was his usual speaking tone. But still Ned was lost to the meaning of his companion’s tale and put up a hand to halt the distracted flow. “Rob, Rob! What is this about?”