Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

That was the second time in recent memory the reputation of the Biddle had been brought up as a stew of known depravity. It said something that even the common punks refused to have any truck with it or it’s reputed practices. Ned was almost intrigued enough to visit, just for curiosity sake of course. Well, almost… “No mistress. I but seek the pleasure of your company to worship at your feet, a respectful devotee of the beautiful goddess, Aphrodite.”

That induced a warily pleasant smile and a light giggle. “Are y’ one o’ ‘em poets o’ the court. I’d a gentleman like that afore. ‘e was a strange fish, but ‘e did pay well. Can y’ m’ lord?”

Ned dug into his lightened purse and pulled out two twinkling golden angels. “These as a token of my good will and humble respect. Four more if you return with me to my vessel.”

This didn’t produce the result that Ned was expecting at all. Her long fingers flew to her throat and the blonde punk took a step back, fear clearly written upon her face. Noticing her distress the other punks closed in protectively. A couple pulled out hidden blades and faced him.

“Behind me Lizzie!”

“Watch ‘im girls!”

“Y’ll nay sell our Lizzie to the Blackamores and Heathen Turks! Y’ miserable pizzle worm!”

What was going on? Ned was for a moment puzzled until one of the shouted threats percolated through his confusion. Turks and Blackamores? Oh no, surely not, that was just market gossip! Every one heard the rumours around Southwark, that some black hearted fiends were snatching girls from the riverside and, according to street rumour, were selling them to the Turks and Musselmen of Africa. But till now he’d dismissed it, as well, just idle tavern tales, the sort meant to elicit a thrill of fear and a warning to girls of good family to stay away from their wilder kin who frequented the riverside ale houses.

Rumour it may have been to him, but here on the river they clearly believed it. If that was so then he needed to pacify the fierce crew err his quarry fled. He lifted his hands clear of any weapon placatingly. “Sweet ladies, I assure you I’ve no such evil intentions.”

“How can y’ prove it?”

Well that was a good question. How did you prove your honesty in a corrupted world? “I give my name’s bond that any who accompany me will come to no harm, and furthermore will receive generous compensation, leaving when they so choose. I, Red Ned Bedwell, do swear this on my hope of salvation and in the name of all the blessed saints.”

That seemed to calm the gaggle down a mite. One of the skirted crew stepped forward and gave him a glaring inspection. “e’s the look o’ Bethany’s swain. She said ‘e had a sweet tongue in ‘im and was as full o’ courtesies as a lord.”

“You know Bethany of the Cardinal’s Cap? How goes she?” Ned was surprised. He’d thought that the girls of Southwark rarely mixed with their rivals across the river. Anyway it had been many months since he had sighed over the soft skin and sweet laugh of Bethany.

“She’s a cousin.” This was the belligerent girl who stood protectively in front and had a very sharp blade held casually in her right hand. Now that he had a closer look, the girl was the same one that trading insults with the friar at Petty Wales the other day. “Found herself an old merchant who’s pledged fo’ marriage if’n she’ll be his alone.”

Ned smiled and nodded. He’d always hoped the best for Bethany. She had a real heart inside that ample bosom, unlike a lot of punks and whores who’d gained a more bitter view of the weakness of men. Now there would be a lucky man who’d die with a contented smile and after she’d be a much sought after widow.

“Give her my regards when next you see her. Till then I offer the hospitality of the Ruyter for the afternoon to any who wish to accompany Lizzie.” Well if he couldn’t get her alone, in company would have to do. His daemon naturally agreed.

Bethany’s dagger-wielding cousin spoke up. It would seem that she was the leader as such. “It be fine fo’ some who don’t ‘ave t’ work, but ‘ows we goin t’ earn our bread?”

Not just the leader, also their trading factor. Ned considered his shrinking purse. Oh well, the devil drove a hard bargain, they said. “Two shillings a piece plus food and drink as well as the chance for any of the men under my command at a fair price of your choosing.”

That had them in a huddle as his terms were debated. This was going to be a very expensive talk. His daemon however was keen, citing how it would immeasurably raise the spirits of the guards and crew.

It was a novel parade that made its way back to Smart’s Wharf, a riot of colour and singing and the flutter of skirts, and for the locals it was better than the Lord Mayor’s parade as well as a damn sight more attractive. Ned and his twenty escorts flounced past the riverside taverns causing a great deal of comment, and ribald speculation. Ned tried very hard to enjoy the brief span of popularity, for as his better angel tartly reminded him, within a day of so, a grossly exaggerated story would wend its way to the wide disapproving ears of Uncle Richard and so on to his friend Councillor Cromwell. That would be difficult if not nigh on impossible to explain away, as it was he liked the nickname Red Ned. It lent him a certain swagger and notoriety. However his angel primly noted, that by Sunday it’d be accompanied by the appellation of Whoremaster and Lecher, then lets see what shadow it cast. Surprisingly though, during the duration of the festive journey not a single monk or friar ranted their disapproval. After infesting the place thicker than fleas on a dog for the past two weeks, now not a one could be seen anywhere.

His arrival at the moored vessel was even more rapturous and both Gryne’s Men and the crew gave a rousing chorus of cheers as they welcomed their afternoon’s guests aboard. Ned placed Tam Bourke in charge of fulfilling the requests of the ladies. He’d worked as a whoremonger for Captaine Gryne and was used to keeping order, and hopefully, at least a modicum of decorum. The last thing Ned wanted out of this was the glorious reputation as being the lord of the city’s first floating stew. In the meantime he listened to the counsel of his daemon, and ignored the warnings of his angel. He had at least a day or so before a certain apothecaries apprentice heard of this jaunty festival and he’d take his chances. After all, Sunday was all too close for remorse.

***

Since Rob’s carpentry crew had finished for an hour or so, Ned had space to settle the punks in the forward repaired section of the hold. The crew had cleared that area, stacking the cargo in the middle and aft section almost to the low ceiling of the deck above. They’d preserved a small secluded island for the two coffins of Joachim and Pieter sitting on a pair of trestles by the re-hidden powder. Ned hoped their ghosts appreciated the party in the forward hold. It was said that sailors always liked a hefty bit of saucy humping, even reformists. And so they should-it was costing enough.

A few orders and more vanishing coin acquired an adequate, but not an abundant supply of food and drink from the riverside tavern. Ned wasn’t going to lay on a feast. He’d no desire to be known as the man who reintroduced the Roman orgy to London, especially since his mostly innocent Christmas Revels had gained a certain notoriety amongst the Chancery clerks. Anyway, according to his more learned friends at the Inns of Court, larks tongues were horribly expensive and as for stuffed dormice, they were an acquired taste that it was best not indulge in.