Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Skelton stepped back and sadly shook his head “Ahh Ned, I’s, sorry to hear y’ talk like that. It really tugs ma’ heart strings, but I’s going to let the lads have another wee chat with y’.”

The constricting pressure returned to Ned’s throat and his body’s demands became more urgent as one of Skelton’s men slammed a fist into his stomach. As Ned doubled over in pain, the choker of the pair threw him back against the wall and his sight speckled with red flashes as the agony spiralled up his torso.

At a wave from their leader both men stepped back and a limp Ned dropped to his knees. He would have puked, but the knot in his throat gagged back the flood of bile. By the saints, that felt worse than the pummelling!

As Ned was pushing himself up, a less than kindly hand grasped his hair and dragged his face once more into the view of Skelton’s. “Has y’ recalled it yet lad?”

If Skelton was trying for the sympathetic uncle approach, the broken toothed smile did nothing to help his bid. Ned tried to frame an answer but only a raw cough emerged.

“I’ll give y’ time to rack y’ memory, just for friendship’s sake lad.”

If this was the consideration to a boon companion, Ned didn’t want to see how Skelton treated an enemy. Maybe they had a few different notions up north in the wild lands. Apart from breathing and subduing the spasms that jolted his body after the pummelling at the hands of some half a dozen smiling northerners, he actually did try to do as Skelton had so roughly asked. The message had definitely been relayed from the Orange Watch to Norfolk’s man. Of course no one had thought to inform Ned back at the Ruyter, an omission he blamed on Meg stiff necked Black. So after a goodly dose of encouragement from Norfolk’s minions, it was imperative to figure out where in the city an arrogant Spaniard in service to a treacherous queen would chose to hide. Definitely before round three of the tender ministration began.

Ned spat out a mouthful of sour bile “Damn you Skelton. I could only follow him a short way. He’s disguised as one of those damned friars that infest the city.”

Norfolk’s man slowly shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, Ned. This I already ken.” Skelton waved his men closer to their prey.

Ned raised an unsteady hand and called out. “Wait… I know which friar he is! You need me walking, damn you, or you’ll never pick him out from the hundreds!”

The large black-bearded northerner paused to consider the suggestion and rummaged thoughtfully in his beard. “Aye.True lad, tho’ we’re runnin’ oot a ’time.”

His retainers took another pace closer. Master Choker was now swinging an nasty looking cudgel and grinning with evil anticipation.

“I know where he is!”

The horde stopped and looked beseechingly towards their now smiling leader.

“There noo lad. That’s better. All y’ needed was a tad o’ a spur. Off we go then.”

That put a damper on the Norfolk retainers. They looked like someone had stolen their yuletide goose. Ned, however, was as close to happy as a man could be in his grievous circumstances, though where Don Juan Sebastian was, he had only a hazy idea, and that was based on a scrap of overhead gossip from the Inns of Court. Ned would give his left bollock to be able to say that the Spaniard was based at Crosby House, south of Bishopsgate and Houndsitch, on St Mary axe and Leadenhall Street. But that would be much too much good fortune to ask for or expect. That was the city house of the Lord Chancellor, and More wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a trail back to his own door. Instead it would have to be someone sympathetic to Queen Katherine, but with sufficient protection to meddle in power politics.

Only one person sprung to mind when you looked at the problem like that-Bishop Eustace Chapuy, the Imperial ambassador, who not surprisingly had his residence just down from Milford Lane, very close to where the Stafford women were holed up. According to two sergeants of law at the Inns, Bishop Chapuy was a well regarded ecclesiastical judge originally from Savoy. His renown as a canon lawyer had brought him to Imperial attention and service with the Hapsburgs had honed his talents of efficiency and ruthlessness. They’d also readily discussed his liberality with Imperial silver to whosoever assisted the case for Queen Katherine. In the following month Ned had soon noted who amongst his fellow lawyers had suddenly shifted opinion. Silver, it seemed, attracted very good listeners.

So if you were mad keen to foment a plot that had Imperial approval, where else would you go? For Ned, Chapuy’s residence had more immediate attractions. That way laid the current region guarded by the Orange Watch. Perhaps he could regain some muscle and turn the tables on Skelton.

Lady Fortuna could be fickle. From success earlier in the day to near disaster, Ned felt he’d sunk to a depressing low. His only bright spot had been successfully convincing Skelton that they needed to go to the Red Boar to seek the latest intelligence.

As they walked in, framed by the summer twilight, Ned’s hopes of rescue were dashed. Damn Meg Black-you couldn’t even depend on her wilfulness! He’d hoped for more than the large boisterous festival type crowd that had packed the street as far as the eye could see, singing and carousing. A few of Gryne’s men would have been perfect. Alas, it was not to be. Only Emma still held court in the tavern, with a trickle of children dashing up breathless with news. So where were the guards he’d been at pains to leave? Ned would even have been satisfied with the usually unwelcome looming presence of Gruesome Roger. So Ned was still effectively Skelton’s ‘guest’.

Emma took his arrival with his friends easily in her stride and had them served a firkin each of her famous double, by the grovelling Tover no less. While the northerners were occupied quenching their thirst, Ned walked over to the owner of the Bee Skep. A couple of his guards made a move to intercept but Skelton indulgently waved them back, while keeping a close but genial eye on his southern boon companion.

Emma’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she got a closer view. “What happened to you, Ned?”

The concern was apparent in her voice, and from an attractive woman to a lad beaten black and blue less than an hour before, it was very welcome. “Skelton and his friends didn’t like my news.”

Ned wasn’t going to mention how he’d been cony-catched by his own stupidity and carelessness, not even to gain sympathy. That, however, that didn’t stop him from berating himself about the galling humiliation of walking straight into it without escort or pistols. His better angel had scolded him as taking too lax an approach to this deadly affair.

It was hard to ignore the truth, so he concentrated on Emma. “Any news on the oranges?” Despite his efforts at relaxed nonchalance, this came out in a husky rush.

Emma frowned and looked askance at his new retinue, while Ned twitched an eyebrow and shrugged reluctant acceptance. “Some Ned. After your ‘chat’ with Margaret, she left in a temper and took it out on those poor liverymen. She got very inventive with delays-it was so entertaining to watch!”

Emma smiled wickedly at Ned’s sour face. It didn’t need much imagination to fill out that tale. So Mistress Black had succeeded once more, to absolutely refuse to heed his express command.

Relishing his response, Emma continued to rub in the endeavours of her cousin. “Then Margaret bought all the provender from the local bake shops and held a feast for all comers in the lanes around the Bishop of Bath’s house. She called it a celebration in support of His Majesty’s Great Petition. The local reeves were livid, but couldn’t stop her. None wanted to risk the King’s displeasure at baulking a generous and public display of loyalty. You can imagine the cheers from the locals, oh, and your fellow lawyers and students from the Inns rushed out to join. Probably all of St Clement Inn across the road emptied within a few minutes.”