Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“What? Per barrel! Are you sure?” Ned tried hard to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Rob looked puzzled for a moment before rejoining the huddle of experts. Further mutters and expansive gesturing signalled the efforts of translation until Rob finally straightened up and walked over with a slightly puzzled smile. “Yes Ned. They’re certain of it-eighty English pounds it is! The measures and weights was a bit of trouble, since they had to rework Doutch and imperial standards into London pounds since a good half to two thirds of the powder is bought overseas. Then there was difficulty in the exchange rate for Rhenish florins.” A pair of beard faced nodded in agreement to Rob’s explanation.

“Sweet Jesu, war is an expensive business!” To Ned this shed a new light on the cost of the cannon’s roar at city celebrations. At sixteen hundred silver shillings or two hundred and sixty gold angels a barrel, it was very clear why the King would want to restrict their use to only supremely important Royal announcements. He wondered just how much powder was used per Gonne. No doubt these two brothers would know down to the nearest peck, but he’d seen a possible answer for the vanished Ben Robinson.

“So where is the powder stored?”

That was too easy. All three of his experts smiled and almost in unison came back with the reply. “Here at the Tower.” Henryk obligingly pointed to quite a few of the buildings and battlement towers surrounding Caesar’s Tower in the centre.

Ned eased down a sudden gulp of apprehension and with growing dawning of awareness, asked the next question in his logical progression towards knowledge. “How many barrels?”

“Seck duizend.”

Ned really didn’t need the clarification from Rob. After a final huddle the concept was staggering. “That is six thousand, more or less, at the last count from Master Robinson.”

And the official who Sir Welkin admitted dealt with the paperwork for this vast quantity of black crumbly volatile gold was missing. Ned didn’t need a doctor’s degree to see the flaws in all this.

***

By the time they had concluded their fruitless search for the new powder officials, Edwards and Watkins, there was only a lingering half hour of the late twilight glow to aid in the journey from the Tower gates at Petty Wales to the docks upriver at Byllynsgate. Ned had briefly considered going back to Caesar’s Tower and collaring Sir Welkin, while he was still rattled from their recent visit, though with only vague suspicions and no evidence that effort would be a waste and no doubt bring unwanted attention from the Royal Court. Whomever the patrons of Sir Welkin were, membership of the upper tiers of the Court was a given. Only the highest had the connections to be able to bestow the position. Added to that was the familial relationship with the Dowager Duchess of Buckingham. That could indicate a lot of pull amongst the old nobility. Since Ned had already offended one senior royal officer in Sir Thomas More, it would be unwise to add further complications until he had a better idea of the factional line up. Anyway it could be better to have Sir Welkin sweat. Ned had dropped enough hints of Privy Council interest to make even the most saintly man apprehensive.

So with Rob Black’s reassuring presence, he left the grey walls of the Tower and walked past the spreading cluster of buildings that had begun to fill in the space between the moat and the river bank towards Petty Wales. Seeing this new sprawl, there was no doubt that the ambitions of their King had been good for trade. This row of structures had sprung up recently to cope with the overflow from the Royal fortress and included storage sheds, workshops and fitting yards for wagons as well as the other impedimenta of war. At times it was more frantic out here than inside, especially when armaments were being prepared for one of the King’s great ships. Then the place swarmed with men and more resembled a scene from Bedlam, complete with screams, shouts and the coarse groaning of stressed rope.

This evening it lacked the recent frenzy. The only activity was a few men working on one of the wharves loading a small wherry, probably with provisions for one of the King’s vessels at Greenwich. They looked busy and the taller one with his cap topped with a waving peacock’s feather could be seen passing barrels to his companion. That spoke of a dedication lacking in officials like Sir Welkin. Most servants would have sloped off to a tavern by now. Ned nodded approvingly and briefly considered hailing them to see if they’d accept a fee for rowing him and Rob up river. However a guilty conscience and his better angel prompted that his legs need the exercise, and at this moment a walk along the river front could be of more value than lazing in a wherry. With a sigh Ned turned away from the opportunity and strode off with Rob.

Despite the short distance, the last ragged banners of twilight fled to the west before they reached the wharf. The dimming of the light however didn’t seem to effect the ranting of those damned friars. He saw another one screeching away at the southern waterside boundary of Petty Wales. From the size of the audience, this one was more successful than the fellow at Aldgate. However he was not without opposition. A colourful and beribboned collection of riverside punks disputed his possession of their patch and the ruining of their custom. The girls made overloud sneering comments about the reputed prowess and excess of friars and the abundant woolliness of their usual bed mates. The crowd lapped it up and in true city fashion, egged the angry friar to respond to the challenge, while a few enterprising young lads were capering in front of the gathering, bleating and baaing with keen intent while a third pretended to be a monk. Ned had to smile and threw them a few pence for their effort.

After that reminder of the plague of friars, it was no surprise to see a cluster of lanterns illuminating another gathering at the customs house at the entrance to Smarts Key. With the bulk of Rob before him Ned easily pushed past the crowd. From what he could see it was a mixed body, some armed retainers, others the usual frequenters of the docks, along with a smattering of merchants. He also noted the hushed talk as he pushed through. Most was the local dockside cant, but the more prosperous of the crowd, spoke in the accented tones of Germans. Word of the happenings here had spread.

As they made their way past the ranks of ships to their moored vessel, renewed muttering broke out behind them. Ned had this creepy, twitchy feeling run up his neck as if a lump of snow had dropped down his doublet. Something wasn’t right. There was a heavy air of anticipation of entertainment from the crowd, more than the usual hunger from those of London. Considering the macabre circumstances that was disturbing. He was suddenly very glad a dozen of Gryne’s men were plainly visible as guards on the wharf.

Once on boarding the ship, Ned gave a brief nod to Gruesome Roger, who barely acknowledged his greeting before pulling Rob eagerly aside. Ned shrugged. Well, since that was the best reception he was going to get, he made his way to the former shipmaster’s cabin.

Pushing the door open he found Margaret Black ensconced with her Hanse partner from the Steelyards, Albrecht Hagen. Both were bent over the trestle table comparing what must be the shipping records. Her companion would peruse a list through closely held eye glasses and read out some obscure merchant’s term then Meg would sort through the pile of loose parchments until she came across a scrawled reference. To Ned the process looked more chaotic than the usual mayhem of a lawyer’s rooms. He fervently hoped that it meant progress, but from the deep creasing of Meg’s brow, he feared that the reconciliation was not going well.