Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned pulled his remaining retainer close and gave him a few instructions then sent him off to Emma. He really had to hope for the best. Will the Butcher was wonderfully intimidating and he had the useful knack of looking like he was measuring one up for jointing and boning. But when it came to more complex matters Ned had to admit Emma’s rag tag of children left most of Gryne’s men plodding well behind. So now he had to rely on the Bee Skep’s owner and hope that her quirky sense of amusement encompassed his plea. The request seemed so humiliating after his abrupt departure. Ned reminded himself that he was, after all, a gentleman, thus honour and gentility were his watchwords.

So Ned took up a more useful position for observing the actions of his prey, covered by a screen of stalls. It had a good view of the supposed friar. Now with a closer and longer look, it was apparent that the Spaniard, although superficially a good imitation, succumbed to many of his embedded affectations. For one thing his left hand frequently sought the hilt of an absent sword, while his stance spoke more of years of accustomed arrogant disdain much more than was natural in any friar. Don Juan Sebastian should have spent more time watching the players at their performances in the tavern courtyards. They could have taught him a thing or two about appearance.

It seemed that Ned wasn’t the only one to recognise the disguised friar. Another pair of fellows walked up and greeting him, though he seemed somewhat less than pleased to see them. They fell into discussion which very quickly descended into an acrimonious dispute. Ned was intrigued. Neither of the newcomers was acting in a subservient manner towards the Spaniard, while Don Juan Sebastian was adopting those same haughty gestures Ned remembered so well. His daemon provided one credible interpretation of the scene. Don Juan Sebastian felt those he was engaging with were little better than sheep humping peasants.

Ned wished he could get closer. The distance was too great to hear them over the hubbub of the street and Don Juan Sebastian’s ‘friends’ had their caps pulled down, shrouding their features. Then Ned noticed an impromptu street game starting up next to the Spaniard and one of the children was Emma’s diminutive messenger. Good, so his plea had succeeded.

After some minutes of animated discussion the meeting ended and Don Juan Sebastian strode off, clearly upset. As expected, the Spaniard didn’t notice the children’s game that shifted in his wake tagging along. In the meantime the two newcomers pointed towards the continuing struggles of the armed band and engaged in some sort of exchange. Whatever it was, they seemed happy enough and headed off towards Fleete Street. Well Ned had little choice. Of the two, the Spaniard was the most important, but he was already marked. These two had displayed sufficient knowledge of the plot to engage Don Juan Sebastian in argument and enough standing to send him away in a huff. Ned was torn as to duty or desire. Currently he lacked an escort and revenge beckoned alluringly. However reason warned him that despite Skelton and a healthy desire for retribution, right now the damned Spaniard came second. So reluctantly Ned set off, trailing after his latest prey, the two newest players in the plot.

That reluctant task soon turned into a very interesting journey across the city. The pair weren’t that hard to keep in view. Though they had the common dress of well off artisans, their caps were ringed with a gaudy red velvet trim and one of them had decided on an extra piece of show and attached a couple of iridescent feathers from a peacock. There was a tingling certainty that he’d seen one of them before, but his memory slid away from any useful connection. Their trail, once across the bridge at Fleete Ditch proceeded uphill to the gate then plunged south towards the river by Blackfriars. From there, starting with Puddle Wharf, the pair visited a number of riverside merchant’s yards. Each call lasted no more than a few minutes. Ned may have been overly suspicious but after each call, the taller of the two seemed to gain paunch in his doublet. The most interesting stop was at Albrecht’s haunt, the Steelyard. The taller one with the feathers stomped out, clearly unhappy. That gained Ned’s undivided interest. Silently Ned cursed in mounting frustration. If only he’d kept his escort! Damn Meg Black and her wilful ways. A snatch would have been simple, but no, his temporary livery men had been sent off to protect Mistress Black, again ! Cursing himself for a soft hearted fool, Ned continued his stalking along the riverside.

As he could have predicted, the pair halted by Smart’s Wharf and Peacock Feathers ducked into the Customs House. Ned was very tempted to sprint for the vessel, if it wasn’t for the chance of scaring off his prey. There was still an incessant demand from his daemon to grab Peacock Feather and his friend, then squeeze some truth out of them. They knew Don Juan Sebastian and maybe Albrecht and possibly about the Ruyter. By all the saints if he had a few men and a Rack or the Boot, he would have done it already and damn the consequences! Ned pressed himself against the wall and pulled his cap down, grinding his teeth in anger. He couldn’t do a thing around this part of the city-he was too well known by spies and pursuivants.

He heard booming laughter as Peacock feather rejoined his friend and they continued their passage along the river. Ned had to skulk at a further distance and frequently ducked behind stalls and carts for cover as they strolled along and called in at Morris Key and Galley Key. Once more Peacock feather was the one who entered, while his short companion made a pretence at keeping watch, while actually eyeing off the passing punks. The girls were thicker than fleas down here. You’d think it was the Liberties. Still they made a fine parade with pulled down bodices and scarlet ribbons. The short one was particularly impressed with a statuesque girl with long blonde flowing tresses and from what Ned could glimpse from his cover, a cleavage a man would die for.

The shorter one was pressing for an assignation, that or bargaining for a lower price. His efforts met with a teasing response from the blonde punk. From Ned’s view, this was no chance meeting, more the expected banter of a regular patron. This continued with much pleading from the shorter artisan, even after Peacock feather returned. There may have been an exchange of coin from the clasp of hands, but finally the two men pulled away, though the short one kept turning back and blowing kisses. Ned toyed with the thought of continuing his pursuit, but a more provocative idea surfaced.

With hand jauntily resting on his hilt, Ned strutted along the riverside into the circling patrol of the punks. Not surprisingly he received many compliments and suggestions on how he could more productively spend his afternoon. With a kind smile he waved them off until he came to the blonde. Up close he could plainly see why the short one was so keen. Her straw blonde tresses cascaded down to her shapely waist, and then you had the so admired cleavage, a pair of orbs, creamy white skin uplifted by the tight bodice.

On closer acquaintance Ned found his breath suddenly very constricted as he gave short bow and a flutter of his cap. “Mistress, I would beg for your indulgence.”

Damn, that came out more like a nervous squeak than the casual arrogance he’d wanted. Ned stretched back up and found himself regarded by the lightest blue eyes he’d ever seen, framed by eyebrows so pale they were almost translucent. By the saints, his daemon whistled with appreciation, the punk was enough to give a man a serious and permanent cramp of the cods.

“What would y’ want lord? Thou’ I’ll nay do the kind of feats they ‘ave at that cesspool the Biddle, nor will I do’s it against the wall. I’s a proper lass an’ expects proper respect.”