Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Despite the present satisfaction, Ned was afflicted by a mounting series of quandaries. At three days until he had to present himself to the Lord Chancellor, he still didn’t have a solution to the foul act committed in this very cabin. Now suspicions, he had them a plenty, but no red handed culprits, and as if that wasn’t enough, the matter of the Queen’s Oranges was for the moment, stalled. And his more recent duty of finding the Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian, had barely started and like every other damn lord he’d been forced to serve, that had to be sorted by the 12th June as well. Some courtly wit had once observed that troubles never rained upon one as gentle dew, they poured as a torrent-how true that was.

In a way it was a pity that prudent consideration had overtaken his sudden inspiration regarding the Hanse agent. Once back aboard the vessel he’d forgone an immediate interview. It may have given great satisfaction to vent his terror and frustration from the sojourn across the river onto someone else, but his training and intuition had blocked that savage anticipation. Instead, he’d kindly thanked Albrecht for his accommodating assistance, and suggested that the Hanse go back to his lodgings at the Steelyard. Ned had even managed to press a few of Gryne’s men on him as bodyguards in this perilous affair. The startled merchant had shaken his hand vigorously, commending him as a fine lad, while his action won a surprising kiss and kind words from Meg Black for the solicitous regard of her friend.

By all the saints, his conscience had writhed over that deception. His better angel had damned him for a treacherous coward, while his daemon had praised his cunning and false demeanour. Afterwards Ned had been stiffly polite and distant. He wasn’t sure what Mistress Black made of this changed attitude. That was tomorrow’s problem. Still he’d managed to put Ouze in charge of the Hanse guard, with strict instructions to keep Albrecht very safe and very secure for a return to the vessel before the Terce chimes on the morrow.

Ned was determined that after the series of debacles yesterday, he wouldn’t succumb to rash impulses. Albrecht could wait until Ned had gained his last piece of proof. In the meantime, since he owned this vessel, Ned felt it behoved him to act more like a responsible leader, somewhat unlike his ‘good lord’. The ship’s company had been assembled in the waist of the vessel and he’d praised their recent efforts in both the riot and fire, promising them that justice would be done for the slaying of their companions. The speech had gained a rousing cheer. That’d been very satisfying, giving him a needed boost to his dented pride, though he probably correctly attributed it to his reward of a night of carousing for them at the Red Bear, the tavern across from the wharf. Practicality had won out over his slimming purse. He wanted the ship empty for the night and Gryne’s men would find it easier to watch over the sailors if they were less than fifty paces away.

So here he was sitting the dark watch. It was very appropriate considering his black thoughts of murder, smuggling and mayhem. A large fearsome monster was moving through the undercurrents of the city, some manner of beast that left a trail of bodies in its passage, while rumours of its deeds had even reached the lords on the Privy Council causing fear, or anticipation. The question was, at whose direction other than Satan’s did this terror stalk its prey, and more so, apart from chaos and death, what was its purpose?

Ned was very much a man of his time. He was imbued with the best education that was available to a youth of his status and family position. That any effort and expense for his training has been expended was still a mystery to him, considering his dubious ranking and social prospects as a bastard. Whenever that question arose, his uncle would slide off on another tangent, so Ned was none the wiser. However it was some of the more useful facets of that education that he now drew upon. It had taught, for instance, that everything in God’s universe was connected both above in the heavenly celestial spheres, and below on this sordid earth, and nothing happened but for the reason of God’s Providence. So what could he make of this?

It was a conundrum. There were several disparate factors that his deep intuition hinted must have some form of connection-especially since for some unknown reason Ned Bedwell had been signalled out to deal with them, and each he perceived as a direct threat to himself and his friends.

Ned took another gulp of the fine ale and pushed back the clawing tendrils of a headache. He almost wished that Dr Caerleon was here to advise him. This really was in the learned doctor’s sphere. That desire brought up three difficulties. The first was Caerleon had bonded him for three tasks like in the old stories, for giving assistance last year. Thus Ned wasn’t keen on bringing himself to the old astrologer’s notice. Secondly, he didn’t trust Caerleon, not even a finger’s breadth. While Ned freely admitted last year’s help had contributed greatly to their survival, as for the motives, hmm, compassion or Christian kindness wasn’t amongst them. His instinct warned him that Dr Caerleon sat at the Gryne Dragon like a spider and twitched the threads of his minions for some darkly obscure purpose, as yet unseen to the rest of the players. In that respect both his daemon and better angel were for once in complete accord. Lastly, since this afternoon, the journey to the southern bank of the Thames had become that much more perilous. Damn Canting Michael!

A gentle tap on the door interrupted Ned’s dark musings. “Enter.”

The shadowed bulk of Robert Black framed the entrance for a moment, before he stepped into the cabin, and once more the gathering night was closed out. “Good evening Ned. I find you well?”

Master Bedwell gave an acknowledging nod and a welcoming smile and waved his friend to a stool. The unflagging courtesy of Mistress Black’s brother had to be experienced to be believed. It was a bright light of hope in these dark days of backstabbing and suspicion. For, as Ned had found when Rob gave his hand in friendship, unlike most professed Christian men, he actually meant it, and that was a gift to be treasured beyond gold itself.

His friend took a draught of the proffered ale and sighed with pleasure. “You’re a strange fellow, Red Ned Bedwell.”

That caught him by surprise. “What?”

“You know, when my sister arrived at Milford Lane, she was full of praise at your brave and noble actions this afternoon, going on about how you stood between her and Canting Michael, at the risk of your life.”

Well Ned wouldn’t have quite put it like that. If it came to a fight, he needed room to draw his blades and in front of Meg was the best spot. Still it was gratifying to hear. “Then we settle down for no more than an hour and she’s ready to string you up on London Bridge for a base born deceiver and trickster, no better than a lying rogue.”

That warm feeling inside Ned shrank to a cold lump. So she must have been talking to Emma, and of course had been updated on the orange saga. Well it had to happen sometime. It was just damned unfair his good stocks had lasted so briefly. “If I led my life for the inconsistent approval of your sister, I’d be madder than a Bedlamite.”

He shrugged as if it mattered little, and moved onto a less fraught topic. “Any news about the Stafford ladies and their tame friars?”

Rob frowned in possible disapproval and pursued his lips as if considering how to frame a criticism, but it passed with a shake of his head. “No, they haven’t stirred. A few of the servants went for groceries and the like, but not even the rind of a single orange has left. Emma has spread the word, as you suggested and she reckons not a single basket will make it past Temple Bar or St Clement Danes.”