Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Now as he played second retainer to Gruesome Roger’s lead, Ned was beginning to have a few misgivings regarding the plan. For one thing, the arrangement was up to ‘Hawks’ and while he’d protect his mistress to his last breath, he had scant regard for Ned. The events of the Fleete Ditch bridge and the rescue of the grain vessels had proved that. So they were maybe backed by a dozen of the most fearsome ruffians in Southwark but his daemon whispered that wasn’t enough.

The building was similar to others along the riverside, built on heavy stone footings, probably from another older structure. The different patterns of use had grafted on a brick wall here and split planks on the south side. The interior space was packed with sacks and barrels as well as the occasional pile of wicker baskets. The lighting was poor since the only source was a couple of high windows that allowed a reluctant trickle of the evening light to spill across the jumbled heaps. A lop eared guard had let them in, giving a vague wave towards the rear. Ned was surprised. He would have thought anyone would be leery of allowing several armed men into a warehouse. They weaved between the tottering piles and baskets in single file towards a dim pool of light at the back.

“Master Hawkins!” It was a loud booming welcome and came from a fellow leaning against an ominously creaking stack of woven containers. “Tis good to see you again, and welcome to your esteemed mistress!”

Their host was a large man, well large at least in circumference, if not actually tall. He looked more like a barrel on legs and from his dress, believed in keeping up with the latest fashion. That much silk velvet on one man would see a draper feasted and drunk for a week. He gave an attempt at a courtly bow as Meg approached, though Ned felt any further effort could see the fellow topple over.

Mistress Black gave the slightest nod in response to the greeting, maintaining an arrogant disdain. “You’re Somersby, the victualler, as referred to us by Master Lyttlefield?”

By the saints she was good! The question fair dripped all the embedded affectations of the highest families of London. An automatic reaction had the victualler trying for a deeper bow. To Ned it seemed that if Master Somersby could, he’d even have gone down on his knees to kiss the fringe of her dress. Meg, in turn, withheld the favour of her hand and regarded the victualler as one would a cockroach, which only drove him on to further attempts at obeisance. Ned found that interesting. Meg Black’s disdain never had that effect on him-more like he wanted to spank her insolence.

“Master Lyttlefield said that you would be of assistance with supplies, though I find it doubtful, considering this pile of trash.” At that her fingers gave a dismissive flick towards the shadowed contents of the warehouse before she pinned the merchant with a contemptuous frown. “I hope for your sake he was not mistaken?”

Ned was impressed at her play, an excellent move mixing sneering request with implied threat, though the reaction was not quite what he’d anticipated. Master Somersby the victualler, quivered almost joyfully at the unsubtle menace of Meg Black’s words. Ned dreaded to think how pleased the fellow might be if she’d cuffed him for insolence. Southwark definitely did have some strange inhabitants.

The rotund victualler continued his unabated fawning and replied in a wheedling falsetto. “Mistress Black, on my honour, I have all that you could ever require!”

Ned frowned at the not so shaded tones in Master Somersby reply. He may have been mistaken but it almost sounded like…like an offer?

The victualler gave a wave and two lackeys, lurking in the background, stepped forward and pulled back a canvas sheet revealing a collection of barrels. Even in the limited light Ned could see the impress of the King’s mark along side that of the Tower on the sycamore stave. As Rob had pointed out, each barrel was bound by corded willow withy and hazel hoops rather than metal, to stop the chance of a stray spark. They were of the right size, as well, to hold the statute one hundred pounds. To Ned it looked a good start and about the right number, at least fifty if not a few more. Meg slowly paced along the front row of barrels, giving each a cool regard. Master Somersby shuffled along behind, spouting a blend of grovelling comments about the superlative quality of his goods and his honoured guest.

Mistress Black abruptly stopped and imperiously pointed to one barrel. “Open it!”

Somersby waved his two minions forward again and they wrestled the barrel out from its companions, then cautiously tapped loose the head. Ned was very relieved to see them using wooden hammers and wedges. The last event he wanted to witness was some fool slamming away with metal tools around the dangerous powder. Once broached, Ned cautiously stepped over after removing his sword belt and the two pistols, leaving them with one of their retinue. Rob had been very specific about precautions around powder.

Ned dipped his hand into the open barrel and felt the smooth grains slide past his skin. At the feast the other night, Rob Black had discussed the various attributes of quality powder, how dry it should feel, the smoothness of the grain and the evenness of the size. Well this seemed to pass the test, no signs of moisture or dampness that so frequently spoilt the mixture. He could see that their host was smiling happily as the trial continued. Well that was all to the good. Ned picked out a pinch of powder and put it in his mouth. Yes Rob had been an excellent teacher, definitely the taste of brimstone and saltpetre.

Then for the final test Ned rolled up his shirt sleeve and dove his hand deep into the bottom quarter of the barrel. It may have looked undignified but his friend had assured him that it was essential. Oh well another good shirt probably ruined. He felt around and pulled up a good hand full.

It was at this point that the powder merchant Somersby became visibly upset. “Upon my soul Mistress, this is the best powder available in the city. I absolutely guarantee it with my sworn and solemn bond!”

Ned poured the clutched handful into his open palm, allowing most to cascade back into the barrel. He slowly nodded and pursed his lips. Yes, that pretty much proved his concerns and matched Rob’s suspicions. The heavy coating of black dust left on his hand was powdered charcoal, the other main constituent of the dangerous mixture, and in this case in far greater proportions than was required. Once more he shoved his arm into the barrel until his fingers could touch the bottom and scooped up one more handful. Slowly, before them all, he allowed it to cascade from his opened palm. Rough textured, weighty, some what gritty, and perhaps too sandy for black powder? Ned dusted his hands and gave a brief signal to their retinue.

Two of Gryne’s men stepped forward and firmly grasped Somersby. The powder merchant immediately began gabbling about the problems of transport, still loudly proclaiming the quality of his goods. Ned finished wiping his black hand on the fellow’s wide expanse of velvet brocade. After all it was only fair that someone else have a share of the cleaning expenses.

Meg Black swung a threatening glare in the direction of the quivering merchant who it appeared was suddenly alone. His minions had scarpered out the back door. Ned considered sounding the horn, but with the gibbering collapse of Somersby there seemed no point. The man was almost a puddle on the floor, moaning about the quality of goods these days and that he wasn’t to blame.

Meg strode across the aisle and bent over the prostrate victualler menacingly. “Master Somersby, it would appear that you intended to deceive us. That insult could only merit a suitable recompense!”