Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

For the final member of their company Ned had a task that he felt really fit the talents of Gruesome Roger. At the powder mill he’d been given the name of a gentleman of dubious business practices, who when paid a sufficient amount, could find them the fifty promised barrels of powder. It was no surprise to discover that the fellow resided at a disreputable portion of the Liberties of Southwark. So Roger was tasked with some reconnaissance and was then to see Captaine Gryne regarding any whisperings of kidnapping or ransom.

Since the visit up Crane River yesterday, Ned was even more certain that Master Robinson’s disappearance was linked in some way to the illicit powder trade. Too much of what Sir Welkin claimed and Master Lyttlefield said didn’t add up. For one thing the concept that so many barrels of powder had been ordered and already paid for was just not in the realms of reality. Royal payments took weeks at the speediest, months usually, and occasionally years, so to pay for them up front with ready coin of the realm? Not even a village fool would do that before each barrel was checked and inspected and weighed. Unless of course there was an urgent need. There were no foreign wars with anyone at present, not even with the hairy legged Scots.

As a consequence of his introspection he was almost entangled in the growing fracas near Eastcheap. Damn ! Ned backed up a few strides and tried to look over the growing scrimmage. Two carters were engaged in some sort of dispute and had blocked the road. As a consequence all the other traffic had piled up behind them and of course, not to miss out on a free show, the local citizens had joined in swelling the congestion. As a route to the wharf this wasn’t going to work. A number of the more enterprising purveyors of food and drink had even set up to take advantage of the sudden opportunity. Things were in a poor state in the city-the bells of St Paul’s had not yet rung out the full ten of the clock chimes and the roads were already blocked. Shaking his head in bemusement at the antics of Londoners, Ned cut south down the closest side alley toward St Michael’s Lane.

As a bypass it should have worked, but at the end of the alley he was brought short by another problem. This time a wagon had dropped its wheel. No doubt the retaining pin was shaken loose by the potholed road. Not wanting to be caught up in yet another delay, Ned turned down the first side entrance that dove towards Crooked Lane. The Mayor and his council really needed to sort out the traffic in the city. At any give time during the daylight hours, you could guarantee being trapped in at least one blockage.

It was even worse now that the city was packed for the Trinity law term and the King’s summons. Just last week it had taken him almost three hours to cross from Westminster to Aldgate, and most of that was back tracking to avoid the chaos of collisions and arguments. At the time he’d even seriously considered revisiting his expedient of last year, hiring a horse at Charing Cross and riding around the city. If these jams continued, it would almost be worth completing a separate road that cut around the northern walls.

In the first instant it was luck that saved his life. Between one step down the narrow alley and the next a sudden roar of thunder filled the space. Startled, Ned stopped abruptly. Instinct didn’t worry about the lack of dark clouds or flash of lightening and saved him from the second shot, dropping his body onto the mucky cobbles just in time to avoid the splintering crash that shattered the timber wall were his head had formerly been. A suppressed part of his mind worried about the state of his doublet, waspishly reminding him that he only had a single dress one left, but the sheer act of survival choked it to silence. Someone was trying to kill him! His daemon sniped waspishly that after escaping the fire aboard the ship and the machinations of Richmond Palace, he should be getting used to this.

Ned had dropped down next to the very full gutter and peering up, he looked about for the tell tale cloud of smoke. He didn’t need the technical skills of Rob Black to tell him that he was being shot at by a couple of harquebus. The smashed wall and the roar had been enough. Then far too soon he caught the flash and bellow of another shot. This one pulverised the cobblestone a finger’s breadth from his shoulder. That was sufficient incentive! Leaping to his feet, he sprinted down the alley, and dove beneath what he hopped was a sheltering doorway. The loud bark and snap of another shot cracking through the timber post soon convinced him of his error.

This wasn’t right! Ned had undergone a little training with such weapons. The ordinances of the King still trumpeted the traditional use of the longbow, but despite the power and authority of Royal proclamation, it didn’t stop gentlemen from trying the new methods of war. Novelty alone guaranteed that. He heard a few portly so called veterans claim it was a dishonourable form of combat, lacking in the manly virtues and only used by skulking cowards and trembling varlets. Ned really didn’t see the difference between slaying a man with an arrow or a lead missile-either way they were dead. The scepticism of professionals had soon evaporated when the landsknechts of Emperor Charles used the disgraceful weapon at Pavia to kill French knights by the hundred. After such a significant success it naturally acquired the keen interest of any sensible Englishman.

From experience gained during his fumbling practice sessions, a source of much merriment to the idle watchers, Ned had noted that a shot a minute was the best that could be expected from a veteran. After dropping the ramrod, spilling the priming powder and having to spark up the slow match, groping for the lead ball in his pouch, speed was a distant dream. So if that was to be expected, how could you explain this conundrum? If fear wasn’t making him misjudge the time, these weapons were firing at a much faster rate, possibly three or four shots a minute each and that was impossible!

It was now that both Ned’s shoulder daemon and angel joined forces to give him an imaginary boot to the buttocks-this was so obviously an ambush! Just like in a hunt where beaters drove the quarry forward towards the waiting hunters, so they had driven him with coincidentally stalled carts and blockades. Ned didn’t need to risk a sprint down the alley to know that it was already blocked. That was the instinctive reaction his ambushers were waiting for. The timber door beside him split from the impact of another shot, sending a spray of splinters to further puncture his doublet. A warm trickle of blood reminded him of his limited time and vanishing options, and he squeezed further into the shrinking cover. One option was to batter on the doors in the no doubt vain hope of help. His daemon gave a hollow laugh at that one, reminding him what ‘ambush’ meant. Whoever had set this up had ensured that none in this lane would interfere.

Ned rubbed his face nervously while his heart beat a steady tattoo of fear inside his chest. His sword and dagger were of little use here. According to Rob, a set of half armour was said to be mostly shot proof. However, unlike that idiot Sir Roderick Belsom, one didn’t usually walk down London streets a clanking. Anyway it was good as wishing for the moon. At close range it would only give him a false sense of security while slowing him for a veritable cascade of shots. As for sprinting for the cart, his daemon reckoned that was a shortcut to Judgement Day.

It was at this point that, as a cornered rat, desperation led to inspiration. In all likelihood it would prove fatal, but he was no less dead if he stayed put in the doorway. At the echoing bark of the next shot, Ned jumped up as it splattered into the ground by his foot, and in a leaping stride, made the other side of the alley and upwards, his fingers scraping a window lintel. Shedding fingernails he knew were going to hurt later, he began to clamber up the wall, gripping projected beams and mullions. One ball ripped through his loose doublet and the flash of it passing scorched his ribs, spurring him to further frantic efforts. His sword endeavoured to slow his progress by entangling his legs or catching on the old timbers. He correctly ignored the temptation to pause and unbuckle it-a still target was an easy target. As well, he was loath the loose the only weapons in his possession. There was too much risk in that. So despite encumbrances he clawed up the wall.