Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

The last few paces were the most difficult as he choked down his instinct to bolt for the welcome cover of the boat away from the overshadowing windows in the palace. After stowing the two dozen joints of game meats in a large salt chest in the stern, Ned dropped relieved and shaking into the boat to the curious stares of Rob Black and Gruesome Roger.

The rippling wavelets splashed and surged underneath the prow, as the barge charged through the waters of the Crane River. It was an impressive effort on the part of the rowers manning the eight foot long sweeps, chanting in unison as they drove the timber blades deep into the water then throwing their bodies forward with the strain to take the craft up river stroke by stroke.

Ned lent forward with the rest, grunting the work chant. His sweep shuddered with an accustomed twang as its timber shaft rubbed the pivot pins. It’d only taken him half an hour to fall into the muscle numbing rhythm, then like the rest he kept the pace, as the sweat ran down his arms and set his palms stinging from the broken blisters.

Despite the pain of his hands and the racked muscles, Ned almost felt happy. He’d finally won an argument with Margaret Black, all be it a brief and low voiced one, but a hard won victory none the less.

Eventually all had been arranged to their satisfaction and the two girls had taken their relaxed position at the stern bench. Ned, trying to maintain his cover from the watching eyes at the dock, had approached very humbly and engaged Mistress Black in a fast description of the perils ashore and advised that if they wished to live past the day, an immediate departure was imperative. That’d been the edited version, having suppressed his more caustic and invective thoughts, regarding their leisurely carousing in the kitchen. A raging argument would help no one, no matter how satisfying or justified. As a consequence here they were ploughing up the Crane River towards Hounslow Heath, and another required task.

The days of their reprieve were slowly slipping away and as yet, Ned had nothing to shield them from the inquisitive eye of the Lord Chancellor, let alone a solution to the baffling murders or the disappearance of Ben Robinson. While regarding his efforts for his good lord and patron, he had found more than enough to see one pursuivant, Ned Bedwell by name, dead in a ditch for his silence.

So here they were, pulling up the small tributary to the Thames just a half a mile or so down stream from Richmond Palace. Ned shook the sweat off his face. He wished that a cartographer would have the foresight to come up with a map of the towns and counties of the Kingdom. Now the Wandle River on the southern bank London-wards of Putney he knew, every cursed inch and riverside tree, too damned well. This patch however wasn’t part of his city geography. To his mounting annoyance and fear, they had to stop and ask several farmers along the river for directions. Ned regarded that expedient as risky since he still had the feeling that someone was after them. The trip up the river may have given them a few hours delay, but if their opponents were persistent enough to try and burn the ship, then chasing them up the river was a very simple matter and every stop and question left a memory to be delved by those that followed. After all it had worked for him with the missing grain shipments.

They’d pulled around another angled bend to the river when the light easterly breeze washed the foul miasma over the barge. Ned coughed and almost dropped the sweep. That odour was indescribably rank, even worse than the stream by the Shambles or Fleete Ditch! Through streaming eyes Ned could see a cluster of buildings on the northern bank. The collection of stone walls with shingle roofs and open sheds was a lot more extensive than the farms and manors they’d passed. Well the Doutch artificers had suggested that a powder mill was more apparent by smell than by sight.

As the barge pulled into the mill’s wharf, Ned glimpsed another imminent problem. Just what was the reason to be here? He felt it would be foolhardy to wave his writ and claim Royal interest. That just wouldn’t hold. Hampton Court was only a few miles to the south west. Ned gritted his teeth. If that weren’t sufficient, then the state of his attire precluded any attempt at official business. The master of the mills would just dismiss him as a prating vagabond and ignore the seal and signature, that’s if he’d even spare the time to have his writ verified.

Ned gave a considering, slit eyed inspection of the two girls seated at the stern and rubbed his sore hands thoughtfully. Well that could be a possibility. He grinned with malicious mirth and wiped a sweaty brow. About time that pair of plumed, chattering birds came in useful and somehow, after this morning, it seemed terribly ironic.

Ned had selected a position to the rear of the procession. In this case the condition of his clothes fitted the part. All he had to do was put on a more pronounced swagger, with his left hand prominently placed on his sword, tilting it out at a rakish angle. Gruesome Roger was in the vanguard. His size, forbidding presence and grimace made him a natural for the job. As per custom, the two girls strode imperiously behind him, spiced orange pomanders held close to faces set in arrogant disdain, dressed in the finest scarlet cloth, edged in dark velvet braid and hair done up in pearl studded French hoods made popular by Lady Anne. To Ned, it was a sight fit even for his Majesty’s Court. As they paced along he’d the best view of those magnificently arrogant stiff shoulders trailing skirts, and as his daemon noted with speculative interest, swaying buttocks. As for their trailing, raffish retainers, Rob and he made an excellent tail, strutting and grimy.

Roger grabbed the first mill worker he came across and hauled the fellow up from the pile of stinking manure he was raking. “Find me the governor o’ this dung heap an’ tell him ta prepare fo’ m’ Mistresses!”

It was in the sort of snarled command and twisted grip that gave an instant response. The poor peasant gibbered in fright before hobbling at his best speed towards a small two level, stone manor house set just back from the mill site. Excellent start thought Ned. News of their arrival would reach the administrator well before the tottering legs of their messenger.

It worked. A worried looking man received them in the spartan luxury of the manor house. In between his constant bobbing and repeated apologies for the inadequate reception, poor wine and lack of suitable comforts, it was discovered that he went by the name of Samuel Lyttlefield. Ned didn’t know whether it was a natural trait or a nervous habit from working in so close proximity to the most dangerous substance in the land, but their host was always distractedly smoothing down the tufts of grey hair that fringed the protruding dome of his head. That’s, when he actually was sitting for longer than a minute. His conversation was frequently interspersed with rapid strides to the window where he would peer anxiously over towards the operations of the mill.

“Master Lyttlefield!” That was very good, with the accustomed snap of command in the tone. Meg must have been taking lessons from one or two of Master Goldsmiths’ wives from the grain syndicate. She had the snarl of arrogance down pat. Once more the governor of the mill scurried back to his seat to attend to his distinguished visitors. His daemon noted with approval that boldness always paid.

“Please mistresses, forgive my inattention. We’re at a very delicate stage of the process. The slightest error and all our work will be gone!”

“Really, then we must inspect it at once!” That combination of a command and statement had the most unfortunate effect on Master Lyttlefield. His eyes went wide and his hands flapped before him like a demented windmill.