Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“Considering the value of your esteem, I would like to prove my worth to the Lord Chancellor, at no charge of course.” Now that was a good grovel. Ned accompanied this plea with a very deep bow. After all, if you had just been bought, it served to provide extra value for the price.

Sir Belsom thought it over stroking his ample chin. Ned could see avarice fighting with his caution, and finally there appeared a slow relaxed smile. “Why Edward, you are proving to be a very useful young man. Go to the Goat’s Head past Galley Key by Petty Wales and ask for Clemmie Watkins and Johnny Edwards on this Saturday morn and I’ll be much appreciated.”

Further profuse thanks and many courtly bows saw the old toad off, and Ned waited until his visitor had picked up his single livery man from the custom house before retuning to the cabin.

Once inside Ned slammed his clenched fist against the closed door. Damn all these grasping old fools to the nethermost circle of Hell, where Satan’s demons could roast and torture them for eternity! Ned was in the most absolute rage. All of them, from his supposed good lord, Cromwell, to Skelton, and finally this fat buffoon, treated him as if he was a lack brained child, too dim witted to clean his own arse! By all the saints, he’d had enough. It was well past time to serve them all the measure of justice they deserved. As for Belsom, he had actually tried the cony catchers twist. The scarlet faced toad really expected Ned to fall for that cross biters swindle. Not, his daemon muttered, that it hadn’t been a good bid. Five hundred pounds no doubt purchased the honour of many fine men in this decadent age. But, and this still left him wryly bewildered, apparently not him. That urge for honesty and honour left him trembling and shaking. It was a dangerous habit to cultivate in any man associated with the Royal Court. An unaccustomed bout of honesty before the King could see you splayed out and gutted for treason within the blink of an eye.

So, caught between rage and fear, what was he going to do? Obligingly his daemon hinted at a tempting possibility. What if he actually complied with the deal? Sure! Have the vessel down at the docks by the agreed time with a bonus, and in return he’d gain the rest of the promised payment. Oh that was as certain as…as Faerie gold!

Ned smiled with feral amusement at the idea. As for the supposed witnesses to Albrecht’s guilt, he hadn’t forgotten where those names had first appeared. Watkins and Edwards were the elusive powder sorters from the Tower. Considering the prominence of the King’s black powder and murder as a twisted cord throughout this investigation, they gained Ned’s personal attention.

This was becoming a very confusing day. This morning he’d bribed Albrecht, midday he’d shot at Meg Black, and this afternoon he’d been bought by Belsom. So if Lady Fortuna was playing her hand in this fashion, Ned couldn’t wait to find out what the evening had in store for him.

***

It was closer to half an hour before Ned felt calm enough from his previous conversation to deal with the next issue, the riverside punks. Suppressing the urge to destroy something had been a sore trial. A few prayers had given some respite but the rage was still there, hovering over his shoulder like a waiting kite ready to dive for prey. As for the fear, fortunately the anger had washed it away, at least for now. Ned instead busied himself with finding a good hiding place for the gold. No matter the outcome, Sir Belsom wasn’t getting it back.

The search for a hidey hole though created another problem. He daren’t use any of the places Albrecht knew in case events went awry. The five hundred pounds in gold coins may be the last bargaining piece Ned held, and he couldn’t call upon the expertise of Rob Black. Trust was not the issue, but on a ship there were only so many available places to secrete anything, and from what Ned had seen every one of them was packed with contraband. What was needed was a place no one accustomed to smuggling would consider searching. It was then that the most horrible and disgusting idea came to him. No it couldn’t work, could it? Well if he flinched from just the idea of it then it just might suffice. Ned stripped off his doublet and shirt. He may be prepared to do many vile and repulsive things, but ruining his last good set of clothes definitely wasn’t one of them.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought-no, that for was certain. The act had been much, much worse. Losing his last meal had been the least repulsive part, and now scrubbing the residue off his arms with water drawn from the river was a noisome task in itself. Once in position, he had almost trod on the ship’s cat as it was stalking its squeaking snacks. That could have ruined everything, though the noise of the revels in the forward hold helped cloak his efforts. Considering the amount of contraband onboard, the thick-furred predator must have been used to shuffling amongst the cargo. It just gave him a baleful yellow glare and continued with its duties.

While washing Ned couldn’t help remembering that all the ordure and refuse from the city streets eventually found its way into the Thames, and from the aroma wafting through the open window, that scouring had been recent. He found a sealed pitcher of tart wine, and in desperation, used it to wash off the last residue. Great, now he stank like a tosspot!

Pulling his shirt back on, Ned went in search of his friend Rob and the two girls. That turned out to be relatively simple. He found them all at the forecastle. Of all the possibilities at hand with two very attractive riverside punks, the very last most of a thousand imaginings that would have occurred to Ned’s daemon was what he saw there. Rob Black was explaining to the two girls the arcane art of the Gonne, using the Falconet he had employed on the mob the other night. What amazed Ned was the rapturous regard of his two guests. They were so deeply involved in the artificer’s explanation they didn’t even notice his arrival. Lizzie, the taller blonde one, even asked what could have been called a very pertinent question about the path of the travelling missile and its force when it struck. Ned stood there with his arms crossed and shook his head in bewilderment. The ways of women were just unfathomable.

Still Ned didn’t feel like intruding. If giving instruction in mechanics was what Rob wanted to do with two ready young girls, who was he to complain. It was just that he felt Rob had missed an excellent opportunity to, ahh, expand his experience. Ned leant against the rail taking a brief rest. He was getting very tired of the continual high drama that fate deemed be played out in the cabin of the slain Shipmaster. Although the murder was committed in the hold, the essence of the foul deed permeated the timbers of that cabin. Many times over the past few days Ned had felt the ghostly, clawing demands of the dead for vengeance. At this recollection he instinctively crossed himself.

This last week had seen some dreadful revelations. One would almost think it had been penned by one of the more bloodthirsty and convoluted Greek dramatists. So far, Mistress Black’s long time family business partner, Albrecht, had arranged to betray her to Sir Thomas More’s heretic hunters, while the respectable Joachim was engaged in treasonous smuggling, and it was possible that he was also part of the conspiracy to hand over Mistress Black and all the illicit cargo. As well, in theory Ned had just accepted a bag of gold to sell them all to Belsom. His daemon also warily prompted that Skelton was still expecting to be supplied with a Spaniard disguised as a priest. As for the mystery of Ben Robinson and the powder sorters, despite a debt of honour, the discovery of the Tower officer was going to have to wait.