Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

From the deep dragging reluctance of his answer you would have thought Sir Welkin was on the rack being put to the ‘Question’. To Ned that admission unlocked a host of answers. So Sir Welkin Blackford could claim a connection to one of the most prestigious families in England. There were many stories about Lady Eleanor, a very domineering and forthright woman according to rumour. That explained in part his distress, thought why a witnessed visit from his aunt should send him into such a blind panic was a mystery. “You are indeed blessed Sir Welkin, to have a kind and doting patroness, especially of so distinguished a lineage.”

From the look on the man’s face he would have been happier marrying into a clan of wild Scotch reivers. Ah well, they say you can choose your friend’s company or not, but family has to be endured. At that moment Ned had a vindictive flash of inspiration. “Sir as a sign of my regard and friendship for your assistance, when I next see your aunt at Court I will recount how worthy a gentleman you are, an ornament to His Majesty’s service.”

If the raw wounds of relations were still open and bleeding, then that was at least a pound or two of salt rubbed in. Ned smiled and gave one of his more impressive bows while the Master of Ordinance stood in stunned regard staring at him in horrified fascination. Their exit was preceded by Sir Welkin’s sniggering servant, Bottoph the minion. It was evident that he enjoyed his master’s discomfort, repeating Ned’s barbed comments in a hoarse voice, interspaced by the coughing bark of laughter. Ned shook his head in wry amusement. It just went to show, connections at court always trumped ability of service.

***

Once they were in the Tower commons having shed their hobbling and cackling escort, Ned grabbed his friend’s shoulder and steered him behind the shelter of a clutter of timber frames on the western flank of the White Tower. “As you said Rob, Sir Welkin is useless. So who else can we ask about Ben Robinson?”

His friend was still chuckling over the discomfort of his nemesis and had to pause a moment before coming up with a considered reply. “When Welkin took the office most of lads were replaced with his cronies, except for the two Doutch Gonne artificers.”

“Who?”

“Hubrecht and Henryk van de Fonteyne. They’re brothers and masters of the craft from the Low Countries, Doutchmen. Welkin couldn’t get rid of them or there’d be none left who could actually work any of the great ordinance.”

To Ned that sounded up to Sir Welkin’s expected standard-strip the office of experienced men and sell off the positions. He thanked the blessed saints that right at this moment the kingdom was not actually at hard war, for it appeared that only a handful of men were left to service the needs of defence. “Where can we find them?”

“They’ll be down in the sheds by Flint Tower.” Rob pointed towards the northern set of walls and buildings. Ned gave an appraising glance to the sky. Well they had an hour left before the long twilight of summer, and so it should be safe enough for another tramp across the city before full dark closed in.

Ned was very thankful Rob was with him. Otherwise it could have been hours before he found their quarry in the maze of buildings and equipment. When the men in question were discovered, they were working on the massive wheel of a great bronze gun over twenty foot in length. Ned had learned a little of his friend’s trade over the past few months so he at least recognised the monster gun as being one of the King’s ‘Twelve Apostles’, as his most fearsome engines were christened when His Majesty used them during the campaigns in France some dozen years ago.

As Ned drew closer, the brothers left off their work to turn and stare in curiosity at their visitors. When they stood up both men displayed an impressive breadth and girth. Put a furry skin on them and they would more than serve as bears for the pit baiting. Ned would readily place a purse of coin on those huge hands. Snapping the necks of mastiffs would be an easy accomplishment in comparison after grappling with the heavy timber and iron of a Gonne. In the shafts of late afternoon light the two Gonne artificers were black-grimed and scarred from their trade. A superstitious man would have instantly crossed himself at their uncanny resemblance to some lesser demons in service to the great bronze and iron monsters behind them.

Despite their foreboding appearance Rob Black’s greeting was met with kind and welcoming humour. Though their speech was slurred by a heavy accent, Ned had little trouble understanding and it gave him a boost in pride for his companion. These two experts in the latest mechanical arts appeared to treat Rob as a valued equal. All too commonly he had witnessed older masters of craft beat or abuse their apprentices and journeymen, seeing them as little better than dumb slaves and fools of little value or worth. For all its assumed dignity and learning, the Inns of Court had been the same with cuffs and cursing more common than praise. Occasionally he contemplated whether the roots of ill treatment lay in the fears created by the prospect of younger up and coming rivals.

After the welcoming banter Ned got down to the matter of his visit. He referred his questions to the older brother, Hubrecht, who boasted a forked beard of grey and brown bristles in the manner of the German merchants. He confirmed the timing of Ben Robinson’s disappearance and added that Master Robinson was most unimpressed by the change in leadership. According to Hubrecht he talked frequently of errors and mistakes, asking for their assistance to fix some of the more urgent problems. Since Benjamin Robinson was the senior remaining official under the new regime, just about everyone in the Tower complex came and complained to him about the practices of Sir Welkin. Ned acquired a new appreciation of the many and various ways the new Master of the King’s Ordinances had managed to offend everyone. There was a common saying that in the King’s service you could commit one or two of three sins without being dismissed: Greed, Stupidity and Arrogance. Sir Welkin proved to be the exception-he had committed all three in abundance and only royal grace or the highest favour shielded such imbeciles from the fruits of their actions.

Ned then, heard that Ben Robinson had tried immediately prior to his disappearance, to get the ear of the Governor of the Tower. Both brothers confirmed empathically that the missing clerk was very upset about something he had found, but whatever the problem had kept it close. Hubrecht then recounted the tenor of their last meeting. “JahMiester Robinson said Sir Blackfood was a dolt and an Arsknodle.”

Ned tried to translate that last bit. Mostly the Doutch version of English made reasonable sense but now this term left him confused. Apparently though neither Henryk or Rob were similarly confused and both men doubled up with laughter. In due course a clumsy translation occurred with much grunting and miming gestures that left little to the imagination and had Ned wryly amused. Evidently it was a Doutch term of derision and referred to the dung remnants left clinging to a fellow’s arse fur after the act of ablution. He felt that it was a very apt description of Sir Welkin.

Ned pricked up his ears at the rest of the recalled conversation. “Miester Robinson then said that the list of HoudsleowHedth was wrong and must be dealt with by the Governor forthwith, then he bid us farewell.”

Ned tried to figure that one out but failed. The accent was just too broad and so he asked Rob Black for another translation. All three artificers went into a huddle and a few expansive gestures later an English version via Rob emerged. “I think he means Hounslow Heath along the Great West road.”