Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Once at the wharf Skelton managed to gain the attention of a couple of medium sized wherries by the simple expedient of waving a purse of clinking coins. The trade must have been brisk this evening. The river was full of the cries ‘Eastwards Ho’ or ‘Westwards Ho’ as the hundreds of boats competed for custom. There was little hope of fitting this band into one so the party was split and Ned found himself roughly pushed into the same vessel as the scowling Skelton who growled a question at him. “Well Ned lad, where do y’ think that poxy Spaniard is a headin’?”

In the race down the alley he’d given some thought to that. The plot seemed divided into action around the political centre of the kingdom at Westminster, spurred on by the messages of the oranges. Those cryptic missives were just notice for those with a voice in Parliament, but there needed to be a goad, a reason to raise the clamour. The gear and powder hidden onboard the ship must be meant for some form of rising, riot or mayhem, otherwise why use the friars to stir up the city? So the ship and its cargo were supposed to originally go down to Greenwich to arm a decent quantity of men who presumably would then march towards London from the east, but to do what? Well something violent and disruptive no doubt. From Ned’s study of the classics like Caesar’s ‘The Gallic Wars’, he had learnt that once set in place most plans are not easily changed. It was probably the case with this one, so the armed band still needed to march at the right time and be assured that all was in place. So it stood to reason that if the Spaniard was going anywhere, he was heading down river.

“That way, fast!” Ned shouted and waved towards the great bridge.

Skelton noted the urgency in his voice, and lent towards the two wherry oarsmen. “If y’ don’t put y’r backs into it, I’ll nail y’ cods ta y’ planks.”

Wherry men are a very independent breed of Londoner. They treat all customers equally, with dismissive disdain and derision no matter what status. So when both oarsmen gave a brief glance at each other and then pulled the oars faster than he’d ever seen before, Ned was impressed. Skelton’s method may have been rough and intimidating, but in this instance it seemed to get results. His suit was no doubt aided by the backing of fiendishly grinning henchmen festooned with sharp blades.

Despite the encouragement, the river was still clear of any vessel that may have been used by the Spaniard, and Skelton was beginning to tug his black beard in a most alarming fashion, eyeing Ned speculatively as you would a calf for jointing.

“Y’ sure he’s here abouts Ned? I canna see the Spanish peacock.” There was a very ominous rumble to that question. The hunt so far had wetted Skelton’s anticipation of revenge, but the lack of prey was forcing him to look for other prospects.

Ned contemplated the chance of a dive into the river. He wasn’t what could be described as a good swimmer, but he could keep afloat and move at a respectable pace if he really had to. That was a skill which most Londoners, and even the wherry men, lacked. Some wit at Court had commented that the difference between a Londoner and a lump of iron in the water was that the iron floated longer, and was worth rescuing.

A loud cry from the lead wherry directed their attention to a four man boat scuttling along the river at a fast pace. The problem with Don Juan Sebastian was that he never really understood the English. The Spaniard should have spent more time studying them, rather than that just dismissing them as lower in the order of God’s creatures than the cockroach. For one thing, no English friar would be caught dead working. It just didn’t happen. That being an excepted fact, if you had a boatload of five monks rowing for all their worth, ergo sic probatur, it had to be the Spaniard.

The chase was on again and all the Norfolk retainers called and yipped in either excitement or anticipation as the wherries surged ahead in pursuit. The other Norfolk craft was in front of Ned’s vessel by a couple of lengths. Fewer passengers gave it a better speed, though it could have been that one of the northerners was leaning forward from the prow with his sword out screaming in maniacal delight, urging them on.

The gap between them started at around two hundred yards, but it was diminishing fast. Even in the closing darkness of the night Ned could see the waving frantic gestures of Don Juan Sebastian as he urged his oarsmen on to greater efforts. If he made it to the bridge and through the race, there was a chance he could escape them amongst the evening traffic on the far side.

Their lead wherry pushed the pace. Ned had never seen such rowing. He wondered what the northerners had used for encouragement-no doubt a similar suggestion to Skelton’s. The distance was narrowing. It was fifty yards now and Don Juan Sebastian could be heard urging his oarsmen on. Ahead the risks of the infamous tidal race of London Bridge beckoned.

Last year Ned had shot the fearsome race when it was at its most deadly, in the company of the Meg and Rob Black. He had never been so terrified, each moment expecting their craft to be smashed again the oaken piers that framed the bridge starlings, or sucked down into the foaming torrent that clawed hungrily at their boat. What made the experience even worse was that that Black siblings clearly enjoyed the whole ordeal.

This time he was not so worried. The tidal race that surged back and forth between the piers of the bridge was at a lower ebb so the drop was only a few feet, still risky for the unwary but not suicidal.

Then they gained an unforeseen advantage. The Spaniard had been so taken in the nearing pursuit, he hadn’t kept a proper watch out and his boat slammed into some half submerged flotsam, upsetting his rowers who tumbled over backwards. A halloing cry of exultation sounded from the forward Norfolk boat, now mere yards away, and the sword wielding retainer, standing at the bow leaped across the gap, landing heavily.

Ned had witnessed a brief taste of the northerners close combat skills earlier in the day, and where as he wasn’t that keen to face any of then in a dark alley, this was a different field of battle. It seemed their master Skelton had been too keen on revenge and had failed to mention the problems of facing the Spaniard.

Despite the collision Don Juan Sebastian wasn’t taken by surprise. He must have already drawn his dagger before the Norfolk retainer leapt. For, as the fellow pushed himself up, blade swinging, the Spaniard closed the short distance and plunged his blade into the northerner’s vitals. Ned could see the look of sudden wide-eyed shock as the steel withdrew. Don Juan Sebastian didn’t bother with another blow. The man was a good as dead. Instead, as the body toppled forward, he caught it under it’s shoulder and straightening up, threw the carcass back to the vessel from which it came but a moment before.

The sudden and terminal return of one of their number unsettled the crew of the lead Norfolk boat. They might have been fearsome foes in a brawl or skirmish, but on the water they’d just seen one of theirs slain in a trice. The next man wasn’t so keen to board and just made slashing swipes that missed by a yard. Ned might have been expected to have a twinge of sympathy for the dead, except that it was Master Choker, and he had his own thoughts on what needed to be done. Unlike the rest of the company, killing the Spaniard wasn’t high on his list. He wanted to find out what was going on, and if that meant getting onboard that wherry, then so be it.

In the scuffle the flow of the river had carried all the boats within twenty yards of the tide race. With the first wherry now out of contention, it was up to Ned’s one for any success, and he wasn’t going to let Don Juan Sebastian get away, not for anything. Ned once more vainly wished for the brace of pistols he’d left in the possession of the punks earlier in the day. That was definitely the last time he travelled without them. Instead, he unbuckled his sword and drew his poniard, then balanced himself on the front ledge of the wherry in a half crouch to keep his balance.