Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

“Sweet ladies, I’m investigating a matter for His Majesty’s Privy Council, and I believe you may be able to help.”

His two guests each looked sceptically at him. Well he supposed as punks they heard all manner of boasts, so he pulled out the writ. The impressed wax seal of the Privy Council looked pretty daunting on the parchment. So did it to anyone without detailed knowledge of the workings of the Court. However as Ned had found, if flashed fast, you could get away with almost anything. The seals with real power resided with the King and the Lord Chancellor, and Ned knew he had a better chance of being elected Pope that getting access to those. No matter. The imprint and signature drew the rapt attention of the two girls, and Mary rubbed the raised red wax seal with a finger, as if her skin could scent the veracity of royal authority. If any trace of the King’s potency lingered with the imprimatur, it was pretty diluted by the time it had reached Ned.

Mary snatched her hand away as if the wax had burned and frowned defensively. “So it’s pretty Master Bedwell. Wot do the likes of us ‘ave to do with the King?”

Ned sighed. He had a few thoughts in that area that were, for a change, totally unrelated to the avocation of the two girls. In a city as large and populous as London, no act or deed went unnoticed and usually unpunished. The clusters of gossips that frequented the wells and fountains were always trading their usual currency of assumptions or rumours, while the neighbours in each of the city’s parishes maintained a jealous eye on each other for protection or advantage, all keen to maintain their privileges.

So someone saw something, and if it wasn’t amongst the good citizens of the city, then Ned would troll through the despised denizens of the lower orders, and as he had noticed this afternoon, the riverside punks kept a very good watch.

“Six nights ago, after the Compline bells, a young boy and his uncle were murdered on this vessel in a most foul and bestial manner. I believe that the murderers travelled east along the river, carrying some barrels of cargo down river. Did you see anything?” Well actually Ned couldn’t be certain that was the case, but such a method of transport made sense. The tide would have been aiding their trip to the ship. And anyway, using a cart was too impractical and noticeable even to the myopic inhabitants of the riverside.

Lizzie’s eye’s widened in surprise. It looked like she was about to say something until an elbowed nudge from halted the revelation. Ned’s eyes narrowed at this abrupt termination. So from that it would seem that the girls on the river had more than common knowledge of this sorry matter.

Gold, it was said by the philosophers, may help loosen tongues, but fear had an excellent effect on clamping lips. Someone had been very thorough. They’d silenced the smugglers of Southwark, and from what he had seen this afternoon, held the riverside merchants firmly by their cods. Now the punks of the riverside also blanched at the apparent threats. He understood the belligerent attitude of Mary’s girls. Outside the dubious protection of a stew or whoremaster, they must lead a precarious existence. When it came to the balance of fear, Ned knew he couldn’t compete, but maybe something else could tip the scales.

Truth. Well, a sort of truth, a part of it, at least.

Ned sighed deeply. “You’ve heard the friars preaching this last week?”

At this unexpected question the frowning Mary remained resolutely silent, and for a change it was Lizzie who answered. “We ‘ave. They bin preachin’ about ‘ell an’ the sufferin’s o’ the wicked at every corner an’ pillory through our patch, damnin’ any who speaks agin’ ‘em. Calling that God will bring down a rain o’ fire an’ destruction on all who don’t ‘elp Queen Katherine.”

Following her companions lead, Mary now also spoke up. “They’re ‘ard on trade, they are, scarin’ off our lads. ‘ow’s a lass to earn ‘er bread? We’s tried to put ‘em off, but they’s always comes back.”

Now that she mentioned it, Ned had noticed in his frequent forays that the friars clustered very heavily on the eastern side of the city, from Petty Wales up to Aldgate. If he had the chance that bore further investigation. He was curious why none of the meddlesome preachers had disputed his recent passage with the crowd of punks. Had his letters of yesterday been that effective? His daemon though suggested another solution-all of them may have been summoned to aid an endangered part of the enterprise. It was ironic that Meg Black’s truculence may finally have been some real use.

“Well ladies, this writ charges me to investigate a treason that links the murder of those on this ship with the friars and other malicious plots, and to question those who may be involved.” Ned had gained an inkling that these disparate affairs may somehow be linked and fervently hoped it was so. Otherwise come Sunday he could look forward to trouble.

Both girls blanched at the words and gave an instinctive twitch of the fingers to avert any ill fortune t their mention. The whisper of treason in any conversation tended to make people nervous, examining their memory for any thought, word or deed that may be misconstrued and merit closer attention by the King’s servants in the iron barred rooms of the Tower. In this particular dread, the punks were no different from any other citizen of the city, all keen to avoid the scrutiny of self serving men. From their reaction Ned could see how the looming prospect of the Rack served to encourage frank confession and cooperation.

As tempting as the use of fear was, he shrugged off the salacious suggestions of his shoulder daemon, and pushed further into the uncharted realm of honesty. “I could promise you purses of gold, rich silks and velvets for your help, but that would be as truthful as the boasts of your customers.”

Ned gave a rueful smile and shook his head. At least it gained a brief giggle from Lizzie. “I’ll not give you such nonsense and I swore to keep you safe while you were on board this ship, so I’ll not utter similar threats to those that have so far kept you silent.”

That was received with very puzzled frowns, while Lizzie kept glancing across to Black Rob as if seeking assurance. Mary, however, kept her hands tightly on the pistol resting across her lap. Well this was as good a reception as he could expect, so Ned pressed on “If you tell me what I need to know, then a purse of ten angels each is yours and the protection of Gryne’s men come what may.”

He had tried to be generous and realistic with his reward. The coin was better than they could normally expect, but not so much that would raise instant suspicion that it was promise of moonbeams.

The pair considered his proposal with Lizzie glancing beseechingly at the young artificer, who shuffled nervously under the feminine assault. Mary however continued to tightly clutch the pistol in her hand and whispered into her companion’s ear. Whatever it was made the ravishing blonde purse her red lips in frowning concern and return a low voiced answer. Ned kept his attention fixed on the two punks while some sort of hushed debate was obviously in progress.

For a change it was Lizzie who spoke up but not to Ned. Instead she directed a question to Rob. “Why should we need protection?”

That was a surprise and once more Rob’s cheeks shaded towards embarrassed. “Lizzie, from what I’ve seen this last seven days, some amongst the Lords are planning bloody mayhem for London to aid some plot of theirs.”

Lizzie gasped and put a free hand to her heaving breast. Ooh, very attractive actually. Ned bit his lip in an effort to suppress his daemon.

Ignoring the swelling orbs, Rob continued. “Ned here is as much a sinner as any of us, and suffers from surfeit of pride and arrogance. Like many a gentleman, he overindulgences in ale, gaming and brawls. Despite his faults, he’s a man of his word and stands by his friends.”