Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

But despite all that, Ned didn’t think Cromwell wanted him to check on the maidenly virtues at Richmond, as interesting assignment as that may appear, so that depressingly left one last option-the King’s Great Matter, the driver of every political action in the kingdom for the past two years, the separation from Katherine, or as it was more correctly termed the nullity of the marriage. Last year’s failure had already cost Wolsey his dominance in the kingdom. So the man who could succeed was in an enviable position. The rewards of a grateful King were unimaginable-power, position and wealth were but some. However there was a simple flaw in all this that one of the brighter fellows at the Inns of Court had correctly perceived.

Katherine was Queen of England and she liked being Queen very much. Whether the later marriage to Henry as his older brother’s widow was canonically legal or not was pretty irrelevant, since all such matters were solely within the purview of the Church. Now when it came to royal marriages, the granting of dispensations was directly in the hands of the Pope.

At that point of confluence lay the greatest problem, for Pope Clement had a reputation for indecision and evasion that was legendary. It was said that he could agree with several different views on the same subject between one sip of wine and the next. However on one matter he was adamant, keeping Charles V as far away and as happy as possible, especially since the Imperial army had sacked Rome a few years ago and now sat a few days march away, a constant source of hovering coercion. Its presence and the fact that Pope Clement had crowned Charles, Holy Roman Emperor a few months ago also gave an indication as to which way the Papal mood was currently tracking.

So as a consequence, Queen Katherine was here in theoretical exile, separated from the Royal Court, where she was supposed to be isolated from any potential supporters or sympathizers. However with only a couple of Royal guards dozing by the old moat gatehouse and the Imperial ambassador in London, a two hour row away, that barrier was extremely permeable. And Katherine, since she had arrived in the Kingdom some decades ago, had built up a reasonable number of ‘friends’ and ‘clients’, ranging from Bishop Fischer who had spoken in her defence to some of the more prominent old nobility. When viewed like that, the problems multiplied like Satan’s imps.

Ned’s growing despondency was cut short by an abrupt shout. “You, varlet-come here!”

Damn, he had forgotten where he was. Instinct turned him towards the caller and his shoulder daemon suggested that he adopt the vacant expression of someone whose parents had been entirely too closely related. It was a priest, grey haired and whippet thin, who stood at the entrance to the Privy Lodgings beckoning imperiously. Ned acquired a shuffling gait borrowed from his uncle’s more practiced servitors.

The priest seemed very impatient and frowned at the tardy approach then barked out a snarled phrase in Latin, imploring the Lord’s aid in dealing with the slow witted. As part of his charade, Ned gave an idiotic smile and crossed himself, thanking the Holy Father for the kind blessing. That got a weary shake of the head as a hand grabbed the scruff of his smock, pulling him into the south wing of the palace.

“You know where the Privy kitchens and buttery are?”

Ned gave a humble, snivelling reply pleading ignorance of the great house. The fellow gave a despairing brush at the dirt smeared badge of a pomegranate on Ned’s doublet and ‘tsked’ at the slovenliness of his new minion and his unworthiness to wear her Majesty’s livery. Then with a rough push, he propelled Ned unsteadily along, making a further muttered plea to the Almighty for patience and cursed the chamberlain for retaining so many errant naves and fools in the Queen’s household. Finally unsatisfied with the progress, the priest’s firm hand locked on the ragged collar and he dragged Ned off into the corridors of the house. From what Ned could see in a snatched glimpse or two between stumbles, His Majesty hadn’t stinted in the decorations, with extensive wood panelling and floor to ceiling tapestries. Eventually the traverse ended when the priest thrust him into a stone-arched, fortified room, similar to the one in the Livery kitchen. This one however was very different, packed with all sort of luxuries, casks of fine sack wine, racks of moulded sugar, boxes redolent of spices and several tall wicker baskets full to the brim of oranges. If only Meg could see this-it contained the stock of the apothecary but several dozen times over.

Wack! The priest struck him across the back of the head. “Don’t gawp fool. Grab two of those baskets and follow!”

Ned rubbed the nape of his neck. The cleric had a heavy hand, but he did as instructed and laboured after the striding man, dragging the instructed oranges. Eventually they reached a set of rooms on the third floor, over looking the riverside orchard. The priest must have been expected, for the guard gave a bow of reverence opened the door and waved them in.

At that instant Ned knew that if he had been in trouble before, he was really for it now. He gave a bob of obeisance and hauled the requested oranges into the presence of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Katherine, the object of Henry’s current petition. She was not alone-now he understood the liveried barges on the riverside.

Ned would have recognised the older woman anywhere. After all he had last seen her the two days ago at the Tower. The Dowager Duchess of Buckingham was sitting opposite a short plump woman with wisps of greying blond hair that poked out of her black velvet cap that was edged in pearls. Although it had been a few years ago, Ned recognised her from ceremonial pageants and Royal processions. The Queen made a flicking motion. Whether that was to the struggling minion or towards her escaping hair, Ned wasn’t sure. But just in case, he lugged the cargo over to a long trestle table covered in small baskets the like of which he’d seen Sir Welkin Blackford so stubbornly defend.

He did as instructed and stood, awaiting further instruction, looking as vacant eyed and gormless as possible, the perfect servant, as he secretly surveyed the other occupants of the room. One was a lady of the Court, about forty years of age, and the familial association with the older woman was unmistakable. Daughter or niece, it must be one or the other. She had the look of long bitter travails. They had etched her brow with lines and pinched her lips. The last one was more disturbing and Ned fervently prayed that he wasn’t recognised-that damned friar from outside the Bee Skep Tavern, the one he’d caused to be arrested was here! The fellow was bowing to the Queen, here of all places, as bold as brass, a great deal cleaner and better dressed in a new habit. Ned tried not to ogle or stand out in anyway. Actually he wished he could melt into the Turkish carpet that hung from the wall behind him. Backing him was another friar with his hood pulled forward, shadowing his face. The stance reminded Ned of one else, but he was at the present keener on fading into the background.

For now it looked like he had succeeded. The Queen continued to address the formerly filthy friar in an interestingly familiar tone. “It goeth apace Dominic?”

Well, thought Ned, that particular rumour was true. Decades here had not done much to remove the heavily inflected Castilian accent of the Queen. The friar gave a brief nod and replied in mostly perfect English, tainted by what Ned had come to recognise as a northern burr. “Aye Y’r Majesty. By the great day all will be done an’ our friends prepared.”

It was at this intriguing point that Ned failed to blend in with the furniture and received another heavy buffet that set his ears a ringing. “Knave, why are you still here?”