Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Skelton though burst out laughing and slapped Ned roundly across the shoulders. “Ahh lad, yea ‘ave the makings o’ a man o’ blood an’ bile, nay like the rest of these whey faced pustules that cringe round the corridors o’ the court. That was a good response. Yea ‘ave a touch o’ courage, but yea misconstrue my saying. It’s not black rent I want of yea. My lord would niver toss friends o’ his niece ta the likes o’ More.”

Ned had to struggle to maintain a bland face. As if he believed that. At the present time, Norfolk loved his dear Boleyn niece, but if an occasion occurred that would serve him better, she’d be swept aside like yesterday’s floor rushes.

Skelton struggled with his features to put on a friendly, honest face. It wasn’t working. The results were, well, just intimidating. “I meant but ta offer yea the shield o’ my lord’s good will.”

Now that was interesting. Protection from Norfolk, but why? Was the Duke planning to upset More in some Privy Council rivalry? If so, then why bother with Ned? He must be so far down the list that he was almost invisible from that lofty height. “What does my Lord Norfolk require for such generosity?”

So the bargaining began. Ned wasn’t that much of a fool to refuse outright. He wanted to walk out of the garden alive and unbloodied. Anyway there was the slightest chance that it may work out to his advantage-before the inevitable betrayal.

Skelton gave a very slow nod of acceptance. His eyes narrowed as if in remembered pain and his voice growled out the reply. “Yea recall that stinkin’ turd o’ a Spaniard, that struttin’ catamite, Don de Alva.”

Ned struggled very, very hard to maintain his composure. It looked like Skelton still held a very personal grudge against the Queen’s servant, as you would if someone had rammed a few foot of steel through your shoulder. Good, so long as Skelton didn’t learn the whole truth, all was well. Ned gave a muttered acknowledgement.

“My Lord o’ Norfolk is ver-ry interested in findin’ the foreigner. The measle is working on some piece o’ mischief fo’ that Spanish harridan o’ his. If’n you can do it, my lord ’ll think well o’ yea. But we’ll need ta find the arse-futterer afore the great signing.”

Despite the demands of the other tasks that was a very tempting offer. Ned also had an outstanding claim for vengeance on the Spanish courtier, but how he was to find the foreigner in a few days was perhaps a greater challenge than he could cope with. “Master Skelton that is quite a request. I have my own reasons for finding that Spaniard, but I think you overestimate my abilities.” Well that was not quite a refusal nor was it a straight acceptance.

However Skelton seemed to think he needed a bit more leverage. “My lord watched yon tricks an’ cony catching with Wolsey’s letters. Twas nay quite what he wanted but close enough. I ‘ave nay the knowing o’ the city, but you ken the darker alleys an’ men o’shadows.”

That was rich coming from a man who had a very intimate knowledge of the twists and turns of the Liberties of Southwark. At another time and place, the inference that Ned was on knowing terms with the lower denizens of the city hierarchy could have given him the opportunity to call Skelton to account for the slur on Ned’s good name. However since he was surrounded by the northerner’s retainers, prudence overrode wounded pride.

“Yea’ll find him easy enough fo’ he dresses as one o’ yon prattling friars. I’ve seen him the once but the rat slipped away.”

Ned lost his composure for a moment and cursed roundly. Damn, he should have recognised him! That third cleric at Richmond Palace, the friar with his face shrouded. He stood too proudly and arrogantly for even a man of God and his hands, they were clean with trimmed and polished nails. That’s what had looked out of place!

Skelton’s face broken into what must pass as a satisfied smile, though it would be best to keep it away from fresh milk. “Yea’ve tripped o’er the foreign bugger! Good. Yea’ll find me at the Norfolk Palace on the water by Lambeth. Send word an’ me an the lads’ll come a huntin’!”

Ned received a further thud to his sore shoulders as Skelton pulled him up, and thrusting a half a smoked capon into his hands, walked him out of the garden, all the time laying on the ‘hail fellow and well met’ act. Ned gave automatic replies as he sorted this disturbing piece of news into the rest of this week’s chaos. Damn it all to hell and beyond! Just what he didn’t need-Norfolk’s command to find a disguised Spaniard, who was deeply embroiled in some form of treachery, and if he didn’t then Skelton had made it very plain they‘d be left to the mercy of Sir Thomas More. Ned had a few bitter thoughts regarding the lords of the realm and his new set of duties. Why couldn’t any of them just write out a simple commission without cloaking it in subterfuge and constraining it in threatened reprisals? Where was Christian trust in these sad times?

***

After the shock of Skelton’s trap at the Star Chamber, Ned didn’t feel like waiting around for anymore surprises. Right now being away from the palace was the best option. He couldn’t have cared if the King’s Majesty had summoned him. He called in at the tavern and brusquely collected his rag tag retainers. A lot of good they had been! Ned was getting irked at being kicked around like some drooling minion, without the wit to loosen his codpiece before taking a piss. So far his good lord had been next to useless in protecting his liegeman. The reciprocal rights of duty and obligation were getting strained there. Perhaps a man had to defend his own honour, rather than relying on the spur of casual self interest of his betters.

Ned was getting a few rebellious ideas in that area. Cromwell was maintaining a very discrete silence in this divergent affair. By now Ned would have expected a prodding missive or two, even if it was only delivered as a ‘weighted suggestion’ by Uncle Richard. The deafening silence was curious especially for a man who revelled in the details of organisation. At this point of his musings his daemon prodded an alarming suspicion. It was possible, it hinted, that the meeting with Skelton had actually been arranged between Cromwell and Norfolk. That sort of third or fourth hand removed scheming would appeal to their devious vanity. As a reinforcement of suspicion, his daemon conveniently recalled a conversation Ned had overhead between his uncle and Cromwell’s clerk, Richard Sadleyer. They’d been discussing the merits of various methods of entry into Parliament, using bribery, influence or family connections. Sadleyer let slip that the trading of influence on the part of Norfolk had gained his master’s position. It could be that Ned’s current transfer of service was, in part, pay back to Norfolk for his patronage.

It did answer some of the inconsistencies from the last sitting of Parliament. The virulent anti-Wolsey faction led by More had collapsed too easily before Cromwell’s measured defence. Perhaps Norfolk or the King had felt that the Cardinal’s disgrace was sufficient. While that helped explain his current predicament, it did reinforce that the only way out of the current mess was to help Skelton. However, on the other hand, that piece of providential evidence didn’t stack up with reality. Cromwell represented Taunton, which was one of the few seats in the gift of the King, so did that mean his master owed direct loyalty to His Majesty? This situation was getting seriously confusing and could easily give a man a headache.

Ned shook off those convoluted musings and led his escort up King Street, past Whitehall, Wolsey’s old palace of York Place. The new appellation to the former Cardinal’s city lodgings had first been tagged by Londoners as a wry jape, that its former inhabitant had been whiter than the Lamb of God. Now it was accepted as ironically appropriate, since the morning sun reflected off the pale stone.