Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“Damn you for a pot bellied, clot eared, measle Bottoph! I said no interruptions!” Red Nose bellowed, as his suffering minion waved a hand in the direction of Ned and Rob. Red Nose swung his crimson suffused visage towards them like the ponderous tilt of a siege engine. It took no skill at divination to see that in Red Nose’s view, previous meetings with Rob Black hadn’t gone well. The gentleman behind the door fixed his visitor with an eye glazed stare and drew in breath to continue his vigorous discourse.

Ned hadn’t time for this display. Nor was he in a particularly tolerant mood. His bruises from yesterday ached and he was still angry at Cromwell’s cozenage with the writ. So rather than endure another tirade he unfurled the parchment and thrust it under the prominent proboscis. The red glazed eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspected the document.

Ahh recognition! The coming torrent paused and what Ned assumed was the face of Sir Welkin Blackford underwent the most fascinating transformation. Whereas, on first sight it was bright of hue and flushed in colour, the blood seemed to instantly drain from his cheeks which acquired a pale pasty complexion. The open mouth primed and ready for a bellow also snapped shut with a visible click. Then without any further word or signal, the head retreated and the door slammed shut.

Ned had seen the reactions of a few men when writs were presented and Sir Welkin’s was intriguing. His minion however seemed to take such receptions as part of his daily burden, for he gave the briefest of resigned shrugs and then once more returned to thumping the door. Ned couldn’t be sure but between the echoing thuds, he could have sworn he heard brief snatches of a conversation behind the door. Whoever it was and whatever it was about was difficult to ascertain, but it sounded heated.

A few minutes later the door was once more opened. However instead of the expected Master of Ordinance, a lady emerged from the room. To Ned’s growing surprise, it wasn’t any common punk or strumpet. From the gentlemen’s overheated appearance and closed privacy, Ned had automatically assumed that he must have been engaged in a very intimate discussion with a girl of ‘generous affections’. This lady was as far from that class as was possible, and if Ned was any judge, she was pushing close to her sixth decade. Any thought of immodest acts were probably out of the question by age, if not by rank.

As Sir Welkin’s visitor imperiously swept past, Ned wrenched off his cap and dropped into the lowest courtly bow he could manage in the narrow passage. Her costume alone merited that. In a city were the sumptuary laws were regularly ignored, it was usually difficult to judge a woman’s social ranking but with this lady there was no such ambiguity. The cloth of her dress was of the finest silk weave and the abundance of expensive trim decoration screamed High Court. Ned caught a glimpse of a gold locket and cross suspended from a necklace of pearls just before he made a close inspection of the stone floor. This lady reeked of the aura of old wealth and title, the sort that made the Royal House of Tudor look like parvenus.

After this surprising exit Sir Welkin waved them in. He seemed a lot calmer than before, though he made frequent dabbing motions around his throat with a grey looking kerchief held in his left hand. Originally Ned had considered the possibility that the new Master of Ordinance had taken this room due to his desire for ‘a hands on approach’ to his position. Well he had sort of been right. Hands had definitely been laid-on every single book and record of the office. They were scattered across the room everywhere, as if by a clerk in the manic throes of St Vitus Dance. If that disorder were not enough, the corners of the room were packed with piles of discarded wicker baskets, full of the drying remnants of fruit peel and heaped pulp fragments. The best description he could think of for this scene was frenzied.

Since he had arranged the interview with Cromwell, his ‘good lord’ and master, Ned had dressed very carefully that morning, putting on his best slashed doublet with the exposed red velvet, and his finest white shirt. But as soon as he stepped inside, the shirt stood a forlorn hope of remaining white while his expensive dark blue hose just might survive the visit. The entire room and all its contents were covered in a fine layer of black dust that seemed to fountain up wherever he stepped. As for sitting, well that was chance that had to be taken. Ned cautiously moved next to a heavy iron strapped chest and shoved a collection of loose parchments aside to create at least a semblance of a perch. For some reason, Sir Welkin twitched nervously as Ned dusted the worn oak top before he assumed a seat.

He also noted with detached interest a very finely engraved pewter ewer and two chalices on a bench next to small wickerwork basket full of fresh oranges. Their spicy aroma was heavy in the air. Despite the mess, Sir Welkin certainly didn’t stint on luxuries. Oranges from Spain were pricy at present, being well past the end of their season. Meg Black had complained of their scarcity since the declarations of hostilities with Queen Katherine’s nephew, the Emperor Charles V. Adopting the know it all guise of her profession, she claimed the fruit were an excellent remedy to the fevers and ague. Ned wisely refrained from comment. However he had ensured that he was conveniently present when the last batch was prepared for medicines and comfits. The bitingly tart taste was well worth the afternoon’s forbearance.

“Sir Welkin, I am Edward Bedwell. You have seen my warrant of commission.” That was delivered very blandly as a statement of fact. Actually Ned had made sure that the Master of Ordinance had only time enough to register the King’s Privy Council seal. The experience of previous assignments had shown him that surprised recipients were too shocked to inspect his documents closely-thus saving needless hours of explanation, clarification and obfustication. Another useful ploy was that if he acted as if he had authority, older men were quite ready to concede it. Perhaps the surprise of his presumption set them adrift in confusion. No matter, it was an advantage and he meant to use it.

The gentleman in question gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, though his hand continued to dab at his chin in an almost nervous manner while he viewed the refolded warrant with as much loathing as a snake.

“Various matters have come to the attention of the Privy Council.”

Once more this was a very safe statement though whether this matter in particular ever graced their bench was subject to debate. But at the suggestion of the Council’s interest, Sir Welkin started shuffling papers around. “I…I assure the Council that all particulars of my office are being sorted out! The last senior clerk has left it all in such disarray! It…it will take several days to find anything.”

The handkerchief fluttered like a torn sail in a storm, as Sir Welkin shuffled through the first pile of papers to hand. “I…I can personally assure the lords of the Council that the King’s powder has been fully accounted for, down to the last firkin!” With that declaration he triumphantly seized the topmost sheet and waved it like a banner rallying fleeing troops.

Ned found that prompt disclosure very curious. Every profession had its own peccadilloes and dodges. It was a fact of life. Ned hadn’t even started to prod or poke and Sir Welkin had automatically claimed all was above board. He made a mental note to ask Rob about the place of gonnepowder in the workings of the Ordinance Office. “I am sure our Sovereign Majesty and the Privy Council will be pleased to receive that notification.”

Ned was sure they wouldn’t have a clue what it was for, but if Sir Welkin was keen to list potential irregularities in his newly acquired tenure, who was Ned to stop him? So he put on his blandest court functionary face and continued probing. “Sir, it is in part regarding the disarray in this office that I am here representing our Royal Sovereign’s interest.”