Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Maybe an interruption would serve them all. He cautiously cleared his throat and gained their instant attention. The Hanse merchant looked up, startled and snapped the ledger shut, while Mistress Black swapped her frown from the papers to him. “Good evening Master Hagen. If you would be so kind, I need to speak to Mistress Black.”

That request gained a very interesting response. From a look of guilty surprise, the Hanse’s face relaxed to tolerant amusement. He gave a muttered greeting and brief bow, and with the ledger clasped under the cover of his long, forked beard, claimed a need for fresh air as he squeezed past. Ned could have sworn he glimpsed a flicker of fear in the fellow’s eye, but maybe it was just the lantern light.

Ned was never quite sure how to deal with Albrecht Hagan. He had made the merchant’s acquaintance last year during the Cardinal’s Angels affair when the Hanse had sheltered them from the pursuivants of the Duke of Norfolk and Cardinal Wolsey, amongst others. That act of succour had been gratefully received, but Ned had also overheard the Hanse merchant offer to remove one Red Ned Bedwell from the scene, quietly and permanently if that would make Margaret Black’s life any easier. It had been a salutary experience for a young lad when she had, after a considering pause, reluctantly vetoed the suggestion. Since then when they had met, Albrecht had been unfailingly friendly and welcoming. Still Ned thought there was a continuing undertone of speculation.

Ned took up the vacated stool while Meg lent back and massaged her forehead. Shoving the pile of loose papers to one side he unfolded the writ. A pair of moved lanterns then held it in place while the Meg Black, apothecary’s apprentice, perused their flimsy parchment shield. It didn’t take long.

Meg flicked a stray lock of hair off her face and shook her head. “So much for your good lord, Ned! He’ll protect us up to a point before offering us as a sacrifice to the Lord Chancellor.”

Ned wasn’t sure what sort of reception he’d expected-a tad more enthusiasm, mayhap? Her response was muted and dull. Maybe Meg had been spending too much time in the company of corpses. He glanced over at the bunk- no, thankfully it was empty. “Where are Joachim and Pieter?”

Meg waved towards the door. “They were dressed and moved to the hold by some of the crew. They took the sight pretty badly but they wanted to do these last honours themselves.”

Ned was relieved. At least that distraction was gone, though it brought up another question. “What of the coroner?”

Meg pursed her lips for a moment before answering. “That was Doctor Radcliffe. He arrived some hours ago, viewed the bodies and accepted the depositions of our witnesses. However when Albrecht pressed for a release of the bodies, he became very evasive and scurried off.”

To Ned that sounded ominous. Perhaps the coroner had word from above. Rather than dwell on that complication though, he shifted onto more neutral ground. “So Meg, any luck with the cargo?”

Her evasive look of the previous day returned. “No…not really.”

Damn, Ned was hoping for a few clues there. He was really going to have to pin Margaret Black down about their now mutual business practices. However now he floated another suspicion that had been building during the day. “What does More know of your trade in heretical books?”

His question instantly received a very sharp look from Mistress Black. It was one area of what he occasionally hoped was a burgeoning friendship that they’d only occasionally ventured into. He’d an excellent idea of what she was doing, but so far the unspoken rules of their relationship had restricted it to only the most cursory discussion. That she knew he was sympathetic and on occasion helpful had seemed to be sufficient, up until now.

Meg Black tapped a finger on the table while she considered her answer. “More has informers and spies everywhere and we know they work with Bishop Stokesley’s pursuivants but now that he’s Lord Chancellor his reach has grown. He still pursues the ‘Brethren’ based at the Steelyard, but has had little success of late. While More had Monmouth arrested the other year and still has the poor fellow languishing in the Tower, his traitors and sneaks have had very little impact. The books get through.”

Her voice was firm and strong. Meg Black had no doubts as to her confederates, and as Ned had expected, any venture involving Margaret Black was well organised. However something-a hint, a clue, or a word-must have set Sir Thomas More off. His men were on the scene too fast. The ink on Sir Belsom’s writ was barely dry. Well, Ned had another source of information. Lawyers by profession were supposed to be circumspect and tight mouthed. Individually that may be true. However gathered together at the Inns of Court they were more garrulous than a murder of crows. Recently a couple of the tavern plays have used the slur that members of the Inns had more in common with the Corvus clan than just the dark plumage.

“At the Inns there is talk of the latest translation of the New Testament coming from the Low Countries. It’s got the Lord Chancellor all worked up. I’ve heard Thomas Philips, the leather merchant, has been seized several times to be questioned by his pursuivants and the Bishop’s vicar general, Foxford, concerning the flood of books. Any connection?”

Meg Black looked very pensive and slightly furtive. “He’s a distant acquaintance and knows a few Brethren, but he is very strong in his faith.”

Ned quirked an eyebrow. Strength of faith may help hold off the lesser questioning, though when it came to the use of the Rack or the Boot, even the strongest mans’ commitment to his beliefs were sorely tested. He thought it best not point out the flaw in his companion’s argument. “It’s irrelevant whether Philips holds firm or not.”

That caused Meg Black to look at him as though he had blasphemed. Ned ignored her look and continued. “Neither Philips’ wealth, his connections throughout the city or his trade with the Low Countries, shielded him from More’s attentions.”

Ned approached the next part of his reasoning with care. After all it was only a suspicion on his part and he didn’t want to add unnecessarily to Meg Black’s already overwhelming concerns. “Since Philips is proving truculent, perhaps the Lord Chancellor is casting his gaze elsewhere-possibly at another prominent and respected merchant family, one also suspected of the taint of heresy and perhaps with Court connections?”

The light of comprehension widened her eyes attractively. He liked that. Perhaps he should spring surprises on her more often his shoulder daemon suggested, but perhaps not ones like this his angel added.

“You think that More would commit such an abomination as an excuse?” Meg Black sounded scandalised at the concept.

Ned didn’t like to speculate on the methods that members of the Privy Council might employ to achieve their ends. It was just sufficient to let a fact percolate. Firstly, the crime of buggery was a felony under church canon law, as was heresy. Secondly, the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond had cargo on board a vessel owned by one Ned Bedwell, nephew of Richard Rich. Thirdly, suspected bible smuggler, Meg Black, was involved, and as well the vessel was chartered from the Steelyards. Did Sir Thomas More possibly need any further excuse to pounce? To Ned this scene had all the marks of a skilled cony-catcher’s play at the dicing tables.

It should have been expected. The current Lord Chancellor did have a history of ‘convenient cases’ on which he’d built his career. One in particular stuck in all Londoners memories. “Meg, do you recall Richard Hunne?”

That one struck home. Meg Black became unusually silent and thoughtful. The case was about the death of Richard Hunne, a very wealthy city tailor. Although it happened over twenty years ago, its merest mention still raised the hackles of nearly every Londoner. Hunne’s five week old son had died, an unfortunately all too common occurrence even with the more modern practice of physick. At the burial, as an extra part of the burial fee, the priest had demanded the very pricy embroidered silk christening robe. The father, deeply offended, had refused. From there it had been taken up as a battle between the rights of common law versus church practice. Initially it had been taken up in the Bishop’s Court, where naturally the court’s decision was in favour of the priest, and then through an unscrupulous twist, the Bishop excommunicated Hunne. The draper had then sought recourse in the Court of the King’s Bench claiming ‘Praemunire’, or to the layman, dealing with a foreign power to the detriment of His Majesty’s sovereignty, a statute over a hundred years old, designed to limit the influence of a hostile pope.