Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

That was almost a purr with just a touch of whip. The merchant reacted appropriately and bent lower with hands clasped in supplication. “No, no, merciful Mistress…it isn’t so! Tis been so difficult to get top grade powder of late. This is all I could find!”

Here was a very interesting claim, thought Ned as he lent closer and put his mouth by the merchant’s ear. “Now, now Master Somersby, I am sure you didn’t mean to cheat us with adulterated powder. Surely it was Master Lyttlefield who supplied this reworked mixture?”

“What? Why, why yes, it’s just so! I was cheated, swindled by that cozener. Please believe me! I’ll drop the price to ninety pounds a barrel, as…as a sign of my good faith!”

Considering how loose and light the powder felt at the middle of the barrel as well as the four inches or so of sand at the base, Ned doubted that each held more than forty pounds value at best, and even that would need to be sifted and re milled. He recovered his blade from one of Gryne’s men and buckled it on. “I think it is still over priced, Master Somersby, but you could be of help in another matter and maybe Mistress Black will forgive this error.”

The cony-caught merchant twitched and trembled while a host of further excuses crowded his lips. Ned casually drew his poniard and placed the blade at the base of the fellow’s ear. “I believe the penalty for fraud is clipping, Master Somersby.”

It was the only kind of cony trick that was really possible with the Gonne powder-cut it down with charcoal remix, and up the weight with sand. Cheap, effective and only discovered by a thorough check. Silently he sent a pray of thanks for the advice of Rob Black and the Doutch Gonne artificers. He wouldn’t have known any different. Then betwixt one word and the next the situation changed.

“What ‘as we ‘ere? I sees all this to-ing an fro-ing at Morgan’s Lane by m’ friend, Somersby’s place, an’ I asks m’self, what’s all the rustle an’ bustle, an’ why’s m’ good friend Capt’n Gryne nay seen fit to tells me of ‘is doings?”

The call echoed in the open space of the warehouse, not overly loud, but clear and penetrating with a slurred hiss to the words, a practised voice that overly hinted of menace and anticipation. You wouldn’t think the gentleman sauntering in had need of such a skill, since he called the bear and bull baiting every week. Volume and invective ruled there rather than the timbre of possessed poise and command. Ned shivered in apprehension. It was not a voice he particularly wanted to hear, certainly not in this part of Southwark. Straightening up, Ned carefully sheathed the blade.

“Sirrah be gone from here. This is a private matter!” Mistress Black’s accusing finger had swung around to take in the newcomer.

Ordinarily her commanding tone would have subdued any common riff-raff, not Canting Michael though. He controlled the eastern half of the Southwark Liberties and prudent men paid him black rent for protection and safety, or else they awoke in the middle of the night blanched with terror at a visitation. It was said that Canting had bitten the fingers off one man who had refused, and fed others to his bears and dogs according to some rumours. No matter whether they were true or distortions, Canting Michael was a man to beware of, and when his tall cadaverous shadow darkened your path, it was usually best to pay up and move on fast.

Twisting up his courage Ned spoke. “Canting, the lady is right. It’s private. We’ve asked Somersby a few questions and will leave in peace. We’re not trespassing on your domain.”

The intruder ignored the warning and took a few more steps towards them, followed by a dozen men. Canting was technically still outnumbered, though Ned knew the Southwark chieftain’s reputation in a brawl. His palms felt suddenly damp and sweaty. Canting was one of those men who held a grudge a very, very long time even where one didn’t exist. As the man’s piercing gaze pinned him down, Ned regretted his outburst. Silence may have been better. He swallowed a stubborn lump of air. Nevertheless he walked forward until he was in front of Meg Black, hand on sword and stood in that half forward crouch recommended by Master Sylver.

Canting stopped and smiled, at least with his mouth. His eyes stayed that cold, icy blue without warmth or animation. “Why’s bless me, tis m’ old friend, Red Ned. Tis bin a long while since we met. Still haven’t forgotten the last time, ‘ave we lads?”

So friendly and persuasive, Ned felt the chill hand of terror grip his spine. Canting obviously hadn’t forgiven or forgotten. “Canting, it was a bet fairly won. We’re square on it!” Fairly maybe, but a stupid one none the less, and too dangerous either way, his better angel primly remarked.

“Ahh Ned, twas indeed, but I’s lost two hundred angels on that bout an’ I’s not a forgiving man. I feels tis time to settle the wager, the way it shoulda bin.” He gave a lazy wave and his escort moved forward, loosening knives and cudgels.

Their own contingent did the same, while the suddenly ignored Somersby crawled as fast as possible towards the concealing shadows. Ned could see no way out of this short of blood, preferably not his, and was about to call the reinforcements when a thunderous clap stilled all the preparations for mayhem.

What in all the blessed saints had happened? All eyes swivelled towards Mistress Black. She held one of those new pistols in her hand, a good deal smaller than the pair that Ned still had. The weapon was pointed towards the roof and a long plume of smoke coiled through a shaft of mellowed light. Having got the attention of the gathering, she held the smoking pistol down over the open barrel of powder and rewound the spring. Ned wasn’t the only one to gasp in shock. What in all the saints was she thinking! One spark and adulterated or not, they’d go to meet the Final Judgement. “Canting Michael back off! If you want Red Ned, you’ll have to wait another day. For now he’s mine. All I want from Somersby is to answer three questions, then we all leave, alive and unharmed!”

The ruler of east Southwark took a half pace forward, until he saw that Meg Black had lowered the pistol to half its depth into the powder, and her hand was clenched, finger on the trigger. Canting’s smile broadened into a grin. However his eyes stayed cold and calculating. “You’re a bold roarin’ girl, too good fo’ the likes o’ Red Ned, but if’n I pulls back what’ll folk say o’ me? Too much the cur an’ I loses respect.”

Meg seemed to consider his question. Ned silently prayed that both of them would see reason. He had no desire to end his days so soon.

“I suppose you could say you yielded to a lady’s honour. Otherwise they’ll not find enough of you to think anything.”

That got Canting Michael thinking. Good, anything that took up time was fine by Ned. He briefly considered reaching for one of his pistols, but the sudden movement might make Meg Black slip. No one wanted any terminal distractions. Gruesome Roger was the closest to the bold Meg Black. So far he was still frozen, hand on cudgel. Ned tried to meet his eyes and silently convey a plea and warning.

“Are y’ not afeared of standing afore the Lord God so soon, life still untasted an’ your sins still fresh an’ unrepented? Are y’s?” Canting always did have a religious bent. He would have made a good priest if his tastes in entertainment hadn’t been so diverse, though such predilections seemed not to stop the progress of some bishops.

However Canting’s philosophical reasoning wasn’t the best path to try. Mistress Black gave a very bitter laugh and a bleak reply. “Unless we solve two deaths by Sunday, the Lord Chancellor will have us for heresy. I think I prefer this to the burning faggots at Smithfield.”