Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“Why yes! The weapon I saw had this device instead of the matchlock!”

“I thought so. For a breech loading harquebus with this device, the price just doubled.” Rob hefted one of the small ‘Gonnes’ in his hand, picked up a lever a hand span long, fitted the square slotted end over a projecting spur in the centre of the disc and then turned it like a crank once until it clicked, before replacing it.

“This is called a pistol, with a wheel lock firing mechanism. Very modern-I’ve only seen a few. According to Uncle Jonathon, they’re made by the best artificers from the German lands.” Rob held the smaller weapon appreciatively, with due care fiddling with the complex looking mechanism.

“What you do is this.” So saying, he held out the weapon and pulled the trigger. This set the disc to spinning, then the jaw dropped and a shower of sparks flew into the recessed priming pan.

Ned was extremely impressed. It didn’t take much practice with the harquebus to see its limitations. Well for one thing rain and dampness tended to put out the slow match. Rob handed him the other weapon from the box and took him through the sequence several times. It really was very easy to use, less complicated than juggling the intricate manoeuvres of the long harquebus.

Now he had a name, he recalled there’d been envious talk about these weapons at the Inns of Court. Pistols were said to be all the rage across the channel and in a fight gave a man that extra edge. And, as always happened whenever a new piece of weaponry became available, some voice the claim that the use of such was hardly the act of an honourable gentleman.. There were also complaints that small, dangerous harquebus made it easier for brigands and rebels to threaten their betters. Of course, such a portable concealable weapon created its own problems. Emperor Charles had banned them in his territories, though not with any appreciable effect so far.

Rob gave the weapons a closer inspection after their trial, before handing them back to a curious Ned. “Good, these have the Augsburg mark and should be reliable. Now you load as you would an harquebus, but the range is only good for ten paces, and before you fire, you have to wind the spring with the lever. Now both could fit under your doublet, tucked in your belt. That’ll give you two shots.”

Ned looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. “Why should I need them? Aren’t they after Meg?”

Oh Damn! Ned hadn’t meant that to slip out, but Rob just smiled grimly and shook his head. “From what I’ve seen, Meg, no.”

“The ship may be?”

“But you…yes.”

Ned swallowed nervously as the implications of his misconceptions hit home. Rob could be right. Now he wondered if he’d at least have a chance to practice with the new pistols before he needed to use them. The gift gave his confidence a boost though it still left the question of who was after him and why?

***

Further speculation on the new found contraband was brought to an abrupt halt by a summons from the deck above. A messenger had called for Ned. Before ascending, Rob helped him adjust the two pistols so that they caused the least discomfort and shoved the small powder canister and bag of shot into his belt pouch.

Finally straightening his doublet, he climbed up into the light. Damn, it was barely worth the effort, for on the deck leaning insolently against the ships rail was Ralph Sadleyer’s arrogant snot of an usher from Westminster. “About time Bedwell. I’ve had to tramp all over the city looking for you”

It was in that snorting, sneering drawl perfected by courtiers that set a man’s teeth on edge and made one instinctively reach for a cudgel. Instead Ned gave as deep a bow as he would to a lord. This man was close to Cromwell and flattery was essential. His courtesy was accepted with a fluttering wave of a ringed hand. “You are commanded to attend the Star Chamber at Westminster before the midday chimes.”

Ned suppressed a chill. The Court of the Star Chamber had a chancy reputation as the place that Wolsey used to break and humiliate his opponents. Ned tried to maintain a calm demeanour as he returned courtesies for the message, even to paying over four shillings for the delivery. Not that his generosity was accepted with anything more that a disdainful grimace from the departing usher.

Thus since his ‘good lord’ called, any other matters must go hang. Ned would have cursed Cromwell if he thought it was any use, but what could not be cured must be endured. And once again with no time to change into more suitable dress-it was almost as if he needed to keep a spare set of court finery on hand at all times. Even so the cost in tailor’s fees for this week’s damage alone would run towards five gold angels, and after that he’d still need another set of finery within the month. The saints knew how courtiers afforded the expense, though he supposed that was one reason for such extensive bribery. They needed some way to keep decent clothes on their backs.

Bearing Rob’s recent warning in mind, he grabbed four of Gryne’s men as a safeguard and after leaving a few suggestions with his friend, hailed a passing wherry heading up river. He deliberately left without bidding Mistress Black farewell. After all she didn’t confide in him about all of her affairs, did she? Anyway he had a sneaking suspicion that Meg Black, would-be surgeon, had enjoyed her last session a bit too much. It had been particularly painful as those splinters were removed.

Ned stood in one of the ante chambers waiting. He seemed to spend his life at Westminster waiting. Damn! He’d even paid the wherry men double to speed them here. The slack tide at the bridge had meant a faster and safer passage. A whole shilling wasted!

Once here he’d slumped against the timber panelling, watching the afternoon crawl by. At least he thanked the saints he’d had the foresight to relieve himself at Westminster Stairs. Otherwise the discomfort would have been excruciating. Others hadn’t been so prudent. There was a distinct whiff of stale urine from the fireplace over to the left, as overpowering as being next to the Fleete Ditch. His retinue had been refused entry by one of the palace guards and Ned had to come up with drinking money in order to keep them relatively close. More damned expense.

Finally one of the doors to the ominous chamber opened. Ned straightened up, brushing specks of London dirt from his doublet, and took up his best court stance, leg forward and cap in hand. His boredom was over at last.

And then he wished for its return-desperately.

The gentleman walking out was large fellow in that tall, rangy manner of the northerners. He had a black beard, thick enough to hide a badger in and it still seemed to claw its way up his face as if seeking to hide under the red velvet cap. The clothes however had improved-it was a burgundy brocade that Ned’s old ‘friend’, Skelton, now affected. “Red Ned Bedwell, I’ve bin alookin’ fo’ yea!”

Now wasn’t that a forebodingly familiar refrain. He could have pulled out the pistols, but using a weapon like those in the King’s palace was a dangerous action to explain, and sprinting back to his guard was out of the question, even more so when Skelton, his nemesis of last year, was followed by several retainers. Each of these had that similar look of men who could claim kinship with the bare kneed Scots and armed, like him, with heavy bladed backswords. So instead Ned chose one of his practiced court bows. He was getting good at those.

“Nay Ned lad. Nay need fo’ so much formality. We’re auld friends.” That coarse cry was accompanied by a heavy handed buffet to his shoulder, as if from a long lost cousin.