Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

The apprentice smith paused for a moment to reorder his thoughts before giving the table a resounding thump. “We can’t pour the Gonnes. Ben Robinson’s disappeared!”

Once that revelation was out the rest followed easily. It transpired that the matter that had Rob in such a flap was the lack of Master Robinson, the clerk of Ordinance from the Tower. The royal official was supposed to be on hand to verify the casting of a new set of eight demi cannons. The Privy Council, through the Master of the Office of Ordinance in the person of Sir Welkin Blackford, had to authorise the released of several tuns of very expensive bronze for the commission. As usual, the clerk was to be present to ensure that the whole amount was used and not substituted with an inferior alloy. Thus a lack of any Ben Robinson created a difficulty. So apparently Uncle Jonathon had petitioned the Master of the Office at the Tower to appoint another surveyor.

That according to Rob was the sticking point. Sir Welkin had refused unless he was handsomely compensated for the inconvenience. So as a result all progress had come to a precipitous halt at the foundry until the vanished clerk could be located. Ergo Rob was here asking for assistance. Well actually his uncle was begging for it with the offer of a hefty reward of twenty angels if it could be done before Monday next.

Well it looked like both Black siblings were again suffering afflictions of woe and as a friend, how could he refuse? And there was also his own debt of honour to Master Robinson. The official had aided them during the Cardinals Angels’ debacle. Since Ned considered himself a gentleman, duty required him to undertake the task. Anyway a purse of golden angels sang a very sweet song. It should be easy enough to track down an errant clerk in between sorting out Meg Black’s difficulty and Cromwell’s assignment. No problems at all.

***

It was late afternoon by the time Ned and Rob made it over to the Liongate of the Tower, hard by Petty Wales. It had taken a little longer than expected since they had to make a few detours off Woodroff Lane, towards St Olaves, due to a virulent dispute between several carters and a score of builders and merchants. Apparently one of the heavy carts had clipped the corner post of some scaffolding and brought the three storey structure toppling down, blocking the road. Even at a score yards distance, they could both see that the small scale disaster was rapidly escalating, with raging dispute and blame drawing in a larger audience. Years of living in the chaos of the city created its own unique set of instincts, and Ned could feel that edgy tremble in the voices of the gathering crowd that bespoke affray, if not bloody riot. He wondered if news of the last nights slaying had tinged the nervous city’s mood, not that that Londoners held the Hanse merchants in anything but the usual loathing reserved for foreigners. Despite that disdain, More’s recent campaign and the rumours of war abroad meant that any event could trigger a repeat of the Evil May Day riots that had seen hundreds of foreigners beaten and murdered by rioting apprentices.

To curtail the prospect of violence or affray on another front, Ned had sent a message from the Bee Skep via one of the many urchins that hung around the tavern. He’d carefully written a very neutral note for Meg Black, hopefully stalling any plans of hers for precipitous action. He hadn’t gone into detail or mentioned the risks entailed in the acceptance of the writ. One never knew how many hands or eyes such missives passed by. Ned had seen the results of such an error last year with the Cardinal’s letters. All he could hope was that Margaret Black would use some of that common sense he knew she possessed in annoying abundance. He prayed that the headstrong apothecary’s apprentice would withhold from anything violent, like throwing a few of More’s men into the river. In the meantime he had another duty to deal with.

The grey walls of the King’s fortress cum palace, with its looming suggestion of menace from the tall towers and the dark frowning cavern of the gate, were the same as his last visit. From what Ned recalled from his studies and schooling, it had been built by King William the Conqueror, constructed from a white Norman stone, a visible ‘symbol’ to Saxon Londoners of his reach and power.

In these more enlightened times under the Tudors, it served more as a reminder of the King’s presence and royal lineage, possibly better than the collection of buildings, courts and palaces at Westminster, whereas those were the usual concourse of royal-commoner interaction, in the way of appeals, writs and judgements. The Tower, sitting on the eastern flank of the city, spelled out the iron resolve behind the clerk’s quill. In the scribe’s parlance, it was titled ‘the buttress of the city’ a sure defence from waterborne threat, while at every Royal celebration, the belching thunder of Gonnes gave the city an added thrill. The darker side of the roiling flash and smoke was an unsubtle reminder to Londoners of its other potential employment, like during the evil May Day riots.

Ned was surprised to find at the gate that they had the same guard as his last visit. The fellow was still having a good leisurely scratch of his cods, but this time a quickly levelled halberd stated no easy access. To Rob, after a day of frustrations, that must have been the last straw. Ned hadn’t had the experience of seeing his friend angry. He’d heard a brief report of a prior occasion during the Grafton Chase ambush. Since it had been delivered in the sisterly dismissive tones of Meg Black, Ned had to seriously re-edit for a more realistic version. He himself had missed the scene, being a bit preoccupied at the time due to his panicked efforts in badger hole exploration, to avoid the slashing blade of an irate Spaniard. Now he thought about it, even the pestilent rancour of Cromwell’s debts and the grain difficulties which Rob had been unwittingly dragged into, only made his friend ‘annoyed’.

Well now he had a good opportunity to see it for himself, outside the most heavily protected building in the kingdom. His friend, Rob, was winding himself up into the sort of rage that could see large beams of oak snapped in bare hands and stones shattered at the volume of the roar. To be fair, the guard was doing his best to stand up to the intimidating sight of the over six foot tall artificer who’s twitching clenched hands gave the easy impression that he was in the habit of breaking the necks of oxen as a warm up. It must have been a really bad day for Rob Black to build up to this level of aggression so quickly. Ned supposed that to his friend, the delay at the foundry had implied a slur to his professional capabilities. It was ironic that Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher had chosen the wrong time to sneeringly refuse entry. Then again, thinking was not usually part of the required criteria to stand slovenly at a gate.

It was an impressive and awe inspiring sight, and by the good lord, if Ned was on the receiving end, then cowering behind a good thick gate would have been his first reaction. Anyway the summer’s day was pushing on, and it was already late afternoon. Ned only had seven days to solve this problem, along with his other burdens of duty, let alone the requested snooping into the Queen’s household. So with a certain amount of reluctance to intervene betwixt a predator and his lawful prey, he stepped forward and unfurled his commission before the wide eyed stare of the trembling guard.

Ned doubted the fellow could read, but the impressive seal and signature was enough to penetrate his fear glazed expression and send him stumbling gratefully back through the gate for instructions. A few minutes later an officer of the Tower guard casually waved them in. Ned noted with a grin the complete absence of Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher anywhere in view. Ned reckoned it would have been a safe bet that the fellow was cowering behind a good, thick, stone wall till the suffused features of Rob Black had passed from his bailiwick.