Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Further consideration of his plight was abruptly curtailed when a ragged smock and doublet hit him in the face. “What!”

“Put this on Master Bedwell.”

At the snarky, imperious command, Ned pulled the offending garment off his front and held it at arms length all the while glaring at the giver, Meg treachery be her name Black. “Arghh! This stinks of offal and horse dung!”

“Good, then it will suit you!”

Ned looked daggers at the lass before him, dressed in all the finery of high station, while he had just been obligated to act the part of the menial labourer these past two hours and now to dress the part of turd carter. For a moment he considered flinging the rags down and unleashing his mounting and justifiable anger.

Well ahh…if…if…

If it wasn’t for that mischievous twinkle that lit her eye and the meaningful tilt of her eyebrow. Not for the first time he was forced to reconsider his reaction. Sometimes, just occasionally enough mind, Margaret insufferable Black displayed sufficient forethought to make him go along with her hare brained schemes. With a barely suppressed oath, he handed his clutched fine doublet and shirt to Rob, then donned the repulsive garb, rammed on the ragged cap and slouched off three paces behind the pair of strutting girls amongst the rest of Emma’s crew. Interestingly, Rob and Gruesome Roger made no move to join them, instead staying on the wharf. Ned did make a note of Roger’s non existent attempts to stifle his mirth at the parade, while Rob suddenly seemed inordinately interested in the crane device.

Ned tried to console himself that at least he now had a better chance to view the palace. The towers were topped with pepper pot domes, each crested with decorated, gilt weather vanes that spun slowly in the light breeze. It was a large complex of buildings, divided into what must be the Privy lodgings on the southern river side and a Great Hall at least a hundred foot long on the west. The road to the palace cut through the orchard and gardens that lined the river meadow, and they followed the trundling wagons to the western side, towards what must be the kitchens and buttery. Its location was given away by the smell of cooking vented through the louvered roof that wafted enticingly overhead, beckoning them on.

Ned soon found that the great livery kitchen was their destination indeed. Here the two girls were instantly enfolded in the generous embrace and booming welcome of an expansive fellow, whom from his sweating brow and stained apron that covered an ample breadth of finery, must be the master cook.

It would seem that neither were strangers here and that raised another set of intriguing questions regarding the diversity of Mistress Black’s contacts. He would have thought that considering the almost common knowledge of her heretical leanings, that here was one place it would’ve been more prudent to shun. Ned was, however, given little time to consider this further since with a hefty clout he was set to unloading the wagons and rolling the barrels into the stone arched buttery, under the watchful eye of the under cook. The two girls of course were entertained by the kitchen master, with a tasting of some game pies fresh from the oven. Ned’s daemon noted sourly that life really wasn’t fair!

It was a large space, cool and dark behind a doubled locked, heavy timber door. The room must have stored enough food for hundreds, if not thousands when the King was in residence, holding festivities and pageants. For here, those days of feasting and celebration seemed to have pasted. The whole area was only a quarter full. This palace had an interesting history of tenants. Recently it had been briefly swapped with Cardinal Wolsey for his new sumptuous estate of Hampton Court near London. At the Inns of Court the word was that Lady Anne Boleyn was instrumental in that arrangement. Rumour had claimed that on viewing it she said that ‘it more became a monarch’s honour that a cleric’s pretensions’. No matter-political prudence dictated that it be given to his lord and master, and then Cardinal Wolsey had, in recompense, received the older buildings of Richmond.

A more cynical man may have expected the Cardinal to spend his immense wealth transforming this place, before a further re-allocation of estates. However during his latest tenure, he had belatedly expressed an interest in matters divine, and had supposedly spent a great deal of time with the monks in residence at the chapel. The courtiers who had gathered around my lord Suffolk had made some caustic remarks about Wolsey and his newly found frequenting of pious poverty.

Suggestions of that ilk must have percolated through to His Majesty, since this palace was once more in royal hands. In fact the Cardinal had still been in residence here until a few months ago, when it had firmly been hinted that it was about time the Archbishop of York took up residence in his ‘own’ diocese far to the north. Most of the court factions had received that information with wry amusement. In all the period of His Grace’s tenure, the Cardinal had only visited his Episcopal seat once, and that was in passing on an embassy to Scotland.

Since the King was now spending most of his time at Hampton Court and York Palace in the company of Lady Anne, Richmond now served another use, the official residence of Katherine of Aragon, the Queen of England. Well she was that until Henry found a way to put her aside. That had in part been the reason for the disgrace of Wolsey. His papal commission with Cardinal Campeggio had crashed under the combined evasiveness of Pope Clement and the intransigence of Katherine, whose nephew fortuitously was his Imperial Highness, Charles V, overlord of the extensive Hapsburg dominions.

So here he was in Richmond Palace as directed by his good lord, Councillor Cromwell, to do…what? That part of the instruction was vague-look into some sort of irregularity or problem? That in itself was a difficulty since there were any number of areas to investigate, and how was he expected to do that within a day or so and try and solve the other two insurmountable problems that also overwhelmed him. Whatever his task was, it wasn’t going to happen in the buttery. Ned ducked outside, evading the eye of the undercook and dodged behind another wall by the edge of the central court. It was a very attractive spot complete with a small fountain spraying water in short jets. He had to find some space to think. Unconsciously he found himself pacing the courtyard tracing the intricate pattern of tiles.

What sort of problems in the Queen’s household would concern a man like Cromwell? Well money could be one. It must be expensive to have to run a separate Royal household and the gouging here would be pretty fierce, from the myriad of officials and servants. But despite the allure Ned didn’t think that was it. Cromwell could have sent a bevy of clerks under Ralph Sadleyer if that was the case.

No, it had to be something more immediate, more imperative and, ahem, not to be too self deprecating, something even he’d be able to spot. That came down to only a couple of options. The first was intriguing but unlikely. The Queen’s maids of honour used to have a very poor reputation. They had been acting well, not very maidenly, and that had also been linked with a scandal regarding the Queen’s former confessor, Friar Diego Fernandez. It had been widely bruited about that he dealt with the maids much more personally than just at the confessional. It was said that cleansing one’s soul was very much a ‘hand on’ experience when it involved the Friar. The result was he was banished years ago, but still the whiff of scandal had perpetuated. That reputation had not been aided by the King almost openly taking up with another of the Queen’s former maids, the Lady Anne.