Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned eyed the mistress of the Bee Skep warily. She had definitely spent too much time with her cousin, unless sly insinuating questioning was a family trait. “No, no. Still, wouldn’t it have been handy to find out where they were heading?”

That was a stiffer response than he had intended, not that it made any impression on a grinning Emma. Somehow he gained the impression that these girls had already worked out the flaws in his plan. It was true that all the oranges must be stopped from reaching their appointed recipients. But knowledge of fellow ‘Orange’ conspirators might have aided their position with Norfolk or Cromwell.

The arrival of another diminutive messenger halted further discussion. The flow of oranges had stopped. According to Meg’s scribbled note, the last two servants had tried a brief sortie towards Temple Bar, then at the first sight of trouble they’d run back to the Bishop of Bath’s Inn. Good news, one route had been dammed. Now Ned had to sort through the second problem. Sooner or later the Stafford women would have twigged to the loss of the oranges, and the assaulted servants. So what would they do? After the first ten or so seized baskets, they may have had an apprehension that the King’s men had tripped over their plots. But the use of the children, beggars and the non appearance of Royal officials armed with warrants and soldiers would have convinced them that it was the mischievous actions of a rival faction.

So what now? If not servants, what next? They must have some degree of influence amongst the powers of the city, otherwise the friars, wouldn’t have had such an easy time. Ned tried to put himself in their position. If he were organising this, what would he do? Surely he could out think a couple of women aided only by a handful of mad eyed friars and a Spanish popinjay?

Ned grappled with the mechanical operations of plot and treachery. They had Queen Katherine’s support and patronage, so that must be worth something, if only for the gold Her Royal Highness could amply provide. Gold was always a useful adjunct to treachery and the lifeblood of any plot, but the sinews of the beast needed men and more than the retainers of their supporters. They were just the loud clamour to add weight to any demands. More importantly for any success, it required the armed presence and authority of a recognised official, a man who could command and enforce obedience in a time of tumult. In fact a man, who could instil compliance from the frightened city and a distracted Parliament, and most importantly, one who had access to and standing with the King’s Majesty.

That list was pretty small. Norfolk of course headed it, but in this instance it was inconceivable that he would be stupid enough to ally himself with his estranged wife, so he was struck off. Charles Brandon, the Earl of Suffolk was next. He had a Tudor sister as his wife and both of them loathed Anne Boleyn enough to help a plot along. Suffolk could easily claim sufficient backing and authority for the act. However it was commonly known that his wife, Mary Tudor, was known to resent Queen Katherine slightly more than her brother’s current mistress.

So to Ned only one final name was left on the list, a man of ambition, talents, connections and totally devoid of scruples, in fact a man who had used the previous disturbance of the Evil May Day riots to enhance his own reputation. A royal official who already had the city in a panic over his raids and whose servants were panting after Ned and his friends. Sir Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor.

As the outline of the plot formed into a giant shape in his thoughts, his daemon took one look and hid, terrified of the apparition. Ned himself would have trembled if he hadn’t been struck dumb with the horror of the plan. Parts and details may have been missing. However the shadow of the beast was enough. He had a fair idea as to the purpose and movement of the terror. Now all he had to do was find a way to halt it. Though how, caught as he was between terror and anger? The looming beast was a-snuffling around and the wrong move would bring it roaring down upon them all.

When the first messages arrived of the approach of a troop of armed men crossing Temple Bar and heading for the Bishop of Bath’s Inn, Ned grimly gave the order for withdrawal. Emma may have been inclined to argue the decision but one look at what Ned was engaged in stilled any comment. He had pulled out his brace of pistols and was checking them over on the table. If this was just a rescue mission for the Oranges, then they were still able to act. If, however, it was with a warrant for arrest, he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.

Messages continued to flow in as the armed party paced closer to the Stafford abode. Those pleas for help became more urgent and closer together as the distance lessened. Still Ned continued to withhold aid, until the last messenger burst in the door panting from the sprint.

“What’s going on? I call for help and nothing happens!” Then an irate Meg Black caught sight of Ned lounging at a table by the fireplace and her fiery passion transformed from mild anger to fury. “Well damn you for a cowardly measle, Ned Bedwell. I’d never thought you so craven as to deny a call for assistance! I suppose I should expect no less from a liar and a cozener!”

The sheer disdain of her insult almost had him flinching in reaction. Instead he made an effort at nonchalance-after all there was an audience present. Ned dropped his feet from the table and sat up straighter. He noted with some annoyance that Emma was attentively watching the exchange with a quietly superior smile. Damn these insufferable Black women. “We cannot contend with them so I gave the command to hold off.”

Well at least his reactions were improving. He dodged the hurled tankard with an inch to spare. It was a pity that the second one collided with his shoulder, drenching his doublet. He really had tried to be reasonable. None could fault his restrain. However at the realisation that his last good dress doublet was soaked and probably ruined in the service of an ungrateful Mistress Black, Ned jumped to his feet with a roar. “Well damn yourself, Meg Black, for a conceited fool!”

He gestured wildly towards the street and the increasing number of faces craning around the door, eager to take in the entertainment. “You want blood on the streets? Go and stop them yourself, but don’t blame me when they haul you off to the Tower!”

To no one’s surprise, his call for restraint was met by a chorus of disdain. Londoners would back anything, even a sheep in a cassock if it meant they could watch a fight. Worse, Meg took this shallow crowd as a true measure of support for her righteous stance. That wasn’t good. It may start off as a bit of street theatre, but the mood of the city was too fragile for it not to surge into a full blooded riot, and as far as Ned could see, that would be a perfect cover for whatever mayhem the Stafford’s had planned.

Enough was enough. Patience was a distant memory and it hadn’t been the best of days. This argument was getting them nowhere and he could see more than enough eager ears ready to report any interesting gossip. He picked up one of the pistols and fired it into the lintel above the door.

The sudden roar accompanied by the distinctive gout of flame and smoke had a most salutatory effect. For one thing, it halted Mistress Black’s exhortation for riot in mid flow, and secondly, the crowd of eager supporters evaporated before the sulphurous smoke had cleared, leaving Meg very much alone, covered in a spatter of dust and broken splinters.

Ned put the discharged weapon back on the table and sat down, beckoning over one of the tavern’s pot boys. “Mistress Black, would you give us the honour of your company for a firkin of sack?”