Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

It was not really an invitation especially after the roar of the pistol. Mistress Black brushed off some of the dust and fragments from her shoulders, and appeared to choke back her rancour, before stalking into the common room of the tavern, a figure of suppressed rage expressed with every step. All eyes in the room closely observed her approach anticipating an explosion, especially Tover the taverner who was busy moving tankards and cups out of her path. With stiff dignity she accepted the proffered beaker of wine and took a careful sip, all with her baleful gaze locked on Ned. Another time he would have been very worried. Now matters had passed well beyond the fear of Meg Black’s approbation. Anyway he was tired of dealing with the unbalanced humours of women. They were flighty and unpredictable. What did worry him during the whole performance was Emma’s amused smile. Whatever the source she kept it close and secret.

Ned inclined his head closer and spoke in a soft and reasonable tone. “My apologies for the distress, Mistress Black.I but sort to keep our business private .”

That received the slightest nod of acknowledgement, but the red light of anger still burned in those blue grey eyes. If there had been a mirror, his eyes might display the same intensity of feeling. He didn’t feel the least remorse in showering her in plaster chips and lath. Now a chamber pot that would have been even more satisfying! Ned was quietly satisfied. His shock tactic had worked and even better, Gruesome Roger was elsewhere. As his daemon suggested, ‘Hawks’ might have taken the use of the pistol very poorly.

“That party of retainers would be More’s men. I think they have a part in this affair with the Queen’s Oranges. However I recently learned that the Lord Chancellor has picked you and the vessel out as his special choice of quarry.”

The signs of Meg’s anger had diminished just a smidgen. Just maybe there was a hint of curiosity there. Time for the adroit use of flattery. “Your work with the Orange Watch has been amazing. You’ve forced them to delay their preparations for over half a day and pushed them to reveal one of their hidden allies. Now they have to march around in public to each of their co-conspirators and deliver the instruction-that will take time.”

As far as Ned was concerned, that was even better than stopping the flow of the oranges completely. At each visit the subverted noble would have to be a fool not to realise he was now openly marked. Treachery and plotting in the concealing shadows of anonymity were one thing. In the full glare of countless gossips, spies and retainers, the traditional rewards of treason gained a new measure of respect.

To Margaret Black, that sensible course of action seemed to be beyond her realms of common sense. She put down her wine and stood up. “No, Ned Bedwell, you’re wrong. I’ll not let them traipse all over my city unhindered!”

With that firm declaration, she walked towards the door. Ned just sat there in angry shock. Damn, she’d done it again, ignored reason and his rightful commands. If Meg Black had been a soldier, he would have been within the Usages of War to shoot her. As tempting as that may have been, he resisted. His angel applauded the restraint.

Instead he slammed the empty beaker onto the table, leaving a spreading spray of shards and jumped to his feet. Well he wasn’t bereft of sense and duty. Ned waved Ouze over. “Go and watch over that headstrong shrew. If it looks like she’s going to get into trouble, just drag her back to the ship, preferably unconscious!”

His retainer appeared to have trouble with his face. The muscles were twitching all over and Ned’s anger darkened as Ouze left with the distinctive sounds of poorly suppressed snorts.

“What?!” Ned had spun around to catch the purveyor of a chuckle, to find Emma sitting there still with that smugly knowing smile on her face.

“I’ve heard honey works better than vinegar, Ned.”

It took a few moments thought for her meaning to sink in. He was inclined to frown with superiority and give a biting retort. He didn’t. Instead he gave a low bow and took his leave muttering loudly to the effect that a bear trap would be more useful. It was amazing what forbearance a man could display when he wanted to keep drinking excellent ale and eating venison pies.

***

Ned stood under the projecting eave of a bakery, munching a fresh loaf and watching the band of armed men trying to march to the Bishops of Bath’s Inn. It was a progress measured in inches. Their passage to the head of Milford Lane was contested by jeering children and conveniently stalled wagons, along with hundreds of the surrounding parish’s idling loungers drawn by the rumour of entertainment. As promised Meg Black had been busy. Belsom’s sergeant at arms from the previous night led the marchers in their truncated journey. The poor fellow had the resigned look of any soldier given a ridiculous duty, as he directed his men to assist in moving a mired cart loaded down with barrels of fish. To Ned all that was required to make this the perfect scene of a players comedy was the scarlet plumes and half armour of Sir Belsom. However their glorious leader was strangely absent from his chance of martial glory.

The view was terribly amusing, men in half armour and livery struggling to pull a wagon from the mud to the colourful imprecations of the carter and the counter productive suggestions of their audience. He’d seen enough. Dusting his hands, Ned strode off. He had graver affairs to deal with. The distraction of Meg Black’s foolishness must have been the reason why he ran full tilt into the friar. Both of them came to a shuddering halt, and Ned’s sword became entangled in the priest’s grimy habit.

“Get off me, you miserable piece of carrion!” Ned lashed out with the back of an open hand and pushed the fellow into the muddy ditch that carried the street’s filth. He’d a difficult time with priests and plots, and now this stumbling oaf almost tripped him up into the crud of the road. The friar must have been young, for he recovered quickly and nimbly skipped over the reeking ditch and turned towards Ned, almost as if he was about to return the compliment with one of his own.

Instead he bowed in supplication and spoke in a trembling voice. “Oh forgivez me greet Lord, my humblest apologiez.”

Ned snarled a reply and strode on. It may have been five paces or so before the jangling bells of his memory pushed past his anger and affront. There was something wrong with what had just happened. It was difficult to sort out the jarring irregularity, and then in mid stride it came to him. That friar fair reeked of oranges! The spicy tang was all over his habit. For only a handful or so of men in London could that be possible, and one of them was that Spanish upstart, Don Juan Sebastian .

Ned grabbed his escort, ducked into a nearby lane and peered back towards the stifled progress. He could see the supposed friar hovering at one edge, closely watching the efforts to clear the road. Yes, it must be him! That stance shouted of poorly shrouded arrogance. Ned choked back the impulse to sprint after the Spanish swine and challenge him there and then. It wasn’t easy-his wounded honour and pride clamoured for retribution. Somehow the pain of his clenched grip on the sword hilt pulled him back towards the shores of reason. No, this was his warrant to escape More’s attention, no matter that Meg ungrateful Black didn’t deserve such loyalty!

So what was he to do? It seemed that Don Juan Sebastian hadn’t recognised Ned. Well he did look somewhat better dressed than the last occasion in the woods by Grafton Regis. Otherwise the Spaniard would have bolted out of sight. Ned frowned. Maybe the foreigner had just seen another one of the despised English strutting past. He couldn’t challenge Don Juan Sebastian-Skelton had been very emphatic regarding that. The northerner wanted the Spaniard in his hands. A kidnapping wasn’t going to work either. He didn’t have enough retainers. As for cony catching ploys, they were unlikely to work. Don Juan Sebastian had been in London too long to fall for the usual tricks, so that left trailing.