Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned was sitting on the chair in the Shipmaster’s cabin, hands clasped tightly as his arms leant on the trestle table, his sight fixed in a locked stare at the specks of dust that swirled in a shaft of warm summer light. A priest may have said he was praying for guidance, while a philosopher would have stated he was seeking understanding by observing a facet of God’s infinite creation, but one of Gryne’s mercenaries standing guard on the deck, would reckon the lad was bored to distraction. The interesting thing about such reflections was that they were all correct, while at the same time being completely wrong.

The Terce bells had sounded not long ago and Ned was a drift upon the sea of conflict. He may have looked calm and reposed, but that was a matter of stubborn will. He’d prefer to smash all the furniture in the room and scream his frustration. Since the interview with Albrecht, he was no longer floundering around. chasing vague shadows that tantalisingly hinted at both promise and threat. Now he knew that the cats-paw, Belsom, was mired in this conspiracy to entrap Meg Black, right up to the tip of his gaudily plumed helm, while the Master of the King’s Ordinance, Blackford, had hit upon yet another clever scheme to enrich himself at his Majesty’s expense. Exactly who had slain the shipmaster and his nephew was still a mystery, but Ned was sure it was tangled up with Belsom’s plans, though whether it was a prearranged part of the plot looked unlikely. So far all of them were running to catch up with the flow of events.

Right now Ned really wanted to deal with those two knights in the manner which they deserved. To his pent up frustration he knew he couldn’t. Due to their positions they were untouchable unless Ned could prevail upon his lord, Thomas Cromwell, or the Duke of Norfolk. In short, he’d a better chance of marrying the Queen of the Faeries. For one thing, his good lord seemed to be playing some double game on the Privy Council, and as for Norfolk, the price of his support was very clear. Find and deliver Don Juan Sebastian, though whether the de facto head of the Privy Council would live up to his side of any bargain was a drunkard’s chance.

So now Ned was in the ridiculous position of having just enough of the knowledge to solve two of his problems but none of the authority to do so. Possibly he could gain that if he sorted out the final two tasks he’d been charged with. So Ned sat there wrestling with the torments of decision, and knowing that once he got up and walked out of the room, whatever pattern he had decided to follow, would be locked in place for good or ill. The longer he sat, the longer he put off the inevitable, and somehow it was strangely soothing to be, for a time, adrift.

A loud rap on the door put flight to his distractions. Ned pulled himself out of his lassitude. Damn, it was almost pleasant in a mind dulling way. One of Emma’s diminutive messengers had arrived, a small, brown haired girl in a dirty dress, clutching a scrap of parchment. Ned gave her a penny and read the missive. His efforts at evasion were at an end. The Oranges had begun to move.

Despite his prevarication, he’d actually prepared for this. He grabbed Ouze and a couple of Gryne’s lads, and leapt straight into a wherry that had been retained since dawn at a fairly stiff price. So it transpired that Rob Black was left in command of the vessel. Ned had a moment’s apprehension, but commonsense reminded him that any man who could manage a furnace gang should have no troubles with this. Anyway he had the final ‘modifications’ to supervise.

Ned took a moment to straighten his doublet and adopt a more dignified pose as he entered the common room of the Red Boar tavern. Once ashore at Milford Lane, Emma’s messenger had lead them on a weaving route through the alleys that emptied onto the main road of Temple Bar. For someone with such short legs, the little lass certainly moved fast and soon had them all gasping for breath as the tavern came in sight. So far no one had tried to kill him today, so it was an improvement.

Once inside, he found Emma was seated at a large table by the fireplace holding court. Ned suspected there must be some sort of secret fraternity of Innkeepers, that or Milliken Tover the taverner, was yet another relation to the widening pool of Black kin. It had to be some arcane reason that the Orange Watch had been allowed to usurp the place, for none of what could be termed the usual clientele were visible as he walked in. His daemon suggested a disturbing answer. Perhaps they too had been recruited. Unfortunately part of his surmise had been correct. It was a very diverse collection gathered in the tavern, from children in worn and dirty clothes to men who held the dubious appellation of ‘common beggars’, not Tover’s usual kind of customers at all. Ned blanched at the mounting cost of the Orange minions while his daemon made a more pertinent remark-the Red Boar was usually Adeline’s favoured abode. Oh by the saints, he hoped that his ‘friend’ had sensed the coming storm and sort other refuge. The thought of Adeline and Meg Black engaging in idle conversation sent chills well and truly up his spine.

Pushing past the motley crew and his other concerns, Ned took a proffered seat next to Emma and accepted a large leather tankard of ale that magically appeared. Whatever the leverage the girls had used, at least he was now accorded some respect and a very good ale. Perhaps the familiar tang of Bee Skep double? Hmm, just how many taverns did Emma supply?

“Any news?” he asked after a decent draught.

Emma gave a quirky smile and airily waved a hand. “Margaret sent word she captured another two baskets to add to the collection.”

Ned looked over at the row of trophies ranged along the wall. It was most impressive. No wonder Emma had seemed to preen. At a quick count, with Meg’s latest that took the total to twenty. “Have any got through?”

Emma shook her head and hauled one of the baskets onto the table. “No, not one, or any messengers. I thought I’d wait until you got here. Meg said you’d turn up sometime soon. Care to open some oranges on someone else’s table?”

Ned looked at the proffered basket and the wickedly smiling face of Emma. Yes, there was no doubt she was a cousin to Meg Black. He politely waved off the task to the assembly of children. This was his next to last decent doublet and shirt. The prospect of ruining them to satisfy a sense of mischief didn’t appeal.

As expected, the carnage was devastating. Most of the room was awash with the spicy aroma of dismembered oranges, with the pulpy remains strewn across the tables. The children fell onto their quarry and assigned task with an enthusiasm and gusto that was truly a marvel to behold. Ned had gathered up the fruits of their labours as carefully as he could, but despite his best efforts, his dark blue doublet still got splattered. Damn, more cleaning expenses! As anticipated, twenty more waxed cylinders emerged from the carcases. Ned actually had the assistance of Emma for breaking them open, which he had to admit made the process slightly less messy and considerably faster.

He unrolled the pieces of parchment and compared them. All still contained the same message as yesterday’s cylinder, bidding the recipients to mayhem and affray. While the hand of the script varied, in each it was the same arrangement of highlighted letters.

Emma peered at the results of their work. “Anything new?”

Ned frowned in concentration. He wished there was, almost desperately. Now he’d arrived, the situation seemed so well organised. It appeared a foolish act to have raced over so precipitously. “No, they’re the same as the first message. I don’t suppose you know where these were going?”

“I was told that we had to stop the oranges. Now Red Ned Bedwell, are you saying that you may have been wrong?”