Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“No! No! Mistress Black it would be far too dangerous!” The fellow bobbed up and down in visible distress. The reaction to that was perhaps not all Master Lyttlefield wanted. The two girls, or rather heiress investors in the Company of Merchant Adventurers, put their heads together and whispered intently much to the further consternation of Master Lyttlefield. Ned could tell the fellow was unused to dealing with the powerful women of the city’s merchant families, but no doubt he’d heard of their formidable reputation. Who hadn’t? That explained the fawning treatment. Meg beckoned over Gruesome Roger who knelt and muttered a few words before being dismissed with an abrupt wave.

On the way to the house Rob give a very brief run down on the operations here. The long raised mounds of stinking manure were the breeding ground for the white crystals of saltpetre, while the carefully watched smoking mounds that lined the opposite riverbank produced the willow charcoal. The sulphur, the last ingredient, was shipped in from the Low Countries and Spain. Then, according to the brothers Hubrecht and Henryk, all these compounds were harmless until united in a secret proportion. That was the perilous part, when the dried bread cakes of the black powder were ground down and broken under the weight of the slow revolving mill stone which could be seen a few furlongs to the west being powered by a pair of oxen as they trod the worn circular path. Ned did recall the warning of the Doutch artificers. It was very graphic. At this stage one spark from the scrape of steel or metal on the ground powder, and it would instantly erupt, unleashing its destructive power, levelling buildings and slaying all within the conflagration. Perhaps Master Lyttlefield had fair cause to be nervous.

Ned watched with suppressed amusement as Meg Black gave one of her disapproving scowls over the barrier of the cloved orange and addressed the mill governor. “Well Sirrah, perhaps we will forgo that after all.”

The grudging concession was greeted with all the acclaim of a benediction from on high by a penitent. Master Lyttlefield rattled out a string of thanks and praises.

“As I mentioned before, you have been recommended to our service by John Rastell and Sir Thomas.”

Oh that was very clever. Rastell was the brother-in-law of the Lord Chancellor and a gentleman known to be connected with the Merchant Adventurers. He was still talked about for his ill fated attempt to settle the New World. Apparently his crew preferred piracy and set him ashore in Ireland. Ned also noted the slight of hand with the names. She didn’t actually give a last name after the ‘Thomas’. That was just implied. No matter, the mere suggestion of such impeccable connections stilled the nervous twitching of their host, and if anything, his grovelling obeisance increased. “Thank you mistress. It is an honour to be of service. How may I assist you?”

“Our company is launching a trade flotilla before the end of the month and it requires sufficient powder for ‘protection’.”

This was received with polite and very attentive interest. The defensive needs of trade, with its ready money, was always preferable to tardy government payment. “Of what grade and quantity, Mistress Black?”

The lady in question frowned then and waved Rob forward. It had been unanimously decided he was to be the master artificer. He pulled a folded parchment from his doublet and read off a list. “Enough coarse meal powder for ten demi-culervin, thirty sakers and a hundred of falconets and robinets, as well as fine serpentine powder for three hundred of harquebus. So at my estimate that would be one gross of large barrels of the coarse, and a dozen barrels of the serpentine, all water tight and proofed, as well as a thousand yard of slow match.”

It was indeed an impressive list, sufficient to arm a squadron for a serious ‘trading’ expedition-one that may be expecting to meet fellow traders on the open sea, whom it was anticipated would be reluctant to bargain, so that the armed edge of ‘mercantile’ leverage would be required to clinch a deal. The quantity had been suggested by Rob as an adequate amount to whet interest, if not overwhelm it in the prospective flood of gold.

At the request their host flattened his few grey tufts in growing anxiety. “That…uhm, that’s a substantial request. I…I am not sure it’s possible.”

He finished very weakly and visibly cowered as Meg’s haughty frown deepened and her tone dropped to one of displeased menace. In fact he shouldn’t have been able to meet any request at all, since this was supposed to be the King’s powder to the last grain. But the fellow had costs; carts, boats, manure rakers, barrel makers, charcoal burners, import duties and licences for sulphur, wear and usage on the oxen and of course, bribes for the surveyors of the Privy Council. When taken together it must all rack up to a substantial amount. As for payment from the Royal purse, well Ned had heard of one petitioner who had waited ten years for recompense from the King’s French wars. So anything to lighten the burden was eagerly grasped at.

Meg Black dropped the cover of her spiced orange pomander and positively glowered at the powder mill governor. Ned tried not to smile in amusement at the fellow’s quivering reaction. “Sirrah! I was assured that you would be able help. My intelligence is that you have over two hundred barrels ready in your stores!”

That had been an estimate from Rob via the Gonne artificers on what should be ready to ship each month and then some. It didn’t pay to keep expensive and chancy powder sitting around. The panic and distress of Master Lyttlefield was truly a sight to witness-so much potential money and patronage at risk. Emma pulled on Meg’s sleeve, distracting her from the next bout of intimidation and once more they went into whispered consultation with much nodding of heads and pursing of lips.

Finally Meg imperiously waved over Roger for a brief whisper and then marched up to the cowering Master Lyttlefield and unveiled the slightest of smiles. “I will concede that a purchase price of one hundred and ten pounds per barrel would be acceptable. However we must have them by the first tide next week!”

The governor of the powder mill had to visibly restrain himself or else his poor fringe of hair would be plucked clean. “Mistress…please. I cannot! On my life, all two hundred and fifty barrels are paid, sealed and bonded to the King’s service. They have to be signed for at the Tower within three days. It is impossible to replace them in so short a time. To release even one would have Sir Welkin gaol me for treason!”

Now that was interesting, thought Ned. More so was the wail of despairing greed as the governor watched his almost two thousand pounds stand up and make to leave. As a last attempt to capture the departing fortune, he fell upon his knees and clutched the hem of Meg’s dress. Gruesome Roger of course did what he does best and loomed over the poor distraught mill governor, making the sort of menacing growl that turned the stomach to water.

“I beg…I beg you mistress. Have pity on a poor man. It is a difficult situation.” Then came the final gamble just as they reached the door. “I can find fifty barrels!”

Meg paused, foot hovering over the step. “What price?” Meg’s casual reply held just enough of inquisitiveness to give hope.

“One hundred and fifteen pounds a barrel…Mistress?”

Even Ned could hear the battle between greed and hope in that answer. Meg gave a small, half turn and inclined her head, snapping out her final offer. “One hundred and twelve, Sirrah! At that, it must be available this week, if not within two days and I warn you Master Lyttlefield, if you are playing me false, my partners and friends do not forget insults!”