Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

So the cargo that Don Juan Sebastian risked all to take downriver of the bridge was one or more large baskets of oranges, the like of which Ned had lugged up three flights of stairs to the Queen’s rooms at Richmond palace. As he had cause to remember, just one of those baskets was over a hundred weight. Now, with the added burden of the coins, that would push it closer to two hundred weight per basket-really unnecessary and overly dramatic.

Ned shook his head in bemusement. If he’d any lingering doubts as to Imperial involvement, they’d vanished now. This collection of oranges came from the ambassador’s residence, and not from the abode of the Stafford women where the others with the secreted messages originated. Unless of course this was another set, separate from the first, but that would be just confusing. Unless there was a purpose for the division?

Ned could feel a return of the post Meg Black’s entrance headache coming on. This plot was become too bizarrely complex for his liking. Here he was, on London Bridge, mid way between the city and Southwark, also equidistance between Westminster and Smarts Key. He could go anywhere from this point, even flag down a wherry and jump on board a vessel sailing for France. And then he could forget all about this past week and all its travails.

No! Unfortunately the time for cutting and running was well past by several days. Ned had till tomorrow, mid morning, to remove the threat of the Lord Chancellor’s writ and still he lacked the last pieces of the puzzle for any form of credible explanation or leverage. As for the rest of the tasks, they were so tantalisingly close to a solution-Skelton had apparently been impressed by his bravado and condescendingly gave a short reprieve on the Spaniard hunt, though Cromwell’s writ to investigate the Queen’s plots would only be cleared if the Orange affair was resolved, while poor Master Robinson was still missing, and as Ned was now certain, connected with the murderous powder sorters, whom due to last night’s excitement he’d been unable to visit this morning.

Ned scrabbled back up the ladder to the congested roadway of the bridge and rejoined his body guards. Tam had been perusing some of the silver gilt plate on display at a small cutlers shop. His narrow eyed examination of the pieces had visibly perturbed the owner who seemed to be torn between wanting to keep an eye on his wares while at the same time not wanting to do anything to upset the burly retainer. Their sudden departure saw the artisan slumping in relief. Ned was amused. Tam Bourke, who topped out at over six feet and audibly clanked with all compliment of sharp ironware, would be enough to give any merchant conniptions.

“If we survive the week I buy it for you.”

“Nay bother. Tis a piece o’ my cousin, Liam. He’s ‘prenticed to a silversmith o’er High street way. Nice bit o’ gilt. He reworked it from a haul out o’ Huggin Court.”

Ned bemusedly shook his head. The time he spent with Captaine Gryne’s men was certainly an education. He gave Tam a measured regard. His bodyguard, despite his obvious interest in modern silverware, had been constantly scanning the jostling crowd for threats. This constant surveillance certainly helped his confidence. Ned was absolutely determined not to be caught off guard again. He wasn’t a cowardly, treacherous measle, as one particular apothecary’s apprentice had so recently maintained, and he did have both the brains and the stomach to stick by his convictions. So it was time to cross the Rubicon. He’d been putting it off for most of the week. Now there was no choice. Ned Bedwell had to take a chance and beard the peril of the Gryne Dragone.

***

After his last sojourn in Southwark where he’d run into Canting Michael, Ned had been putting off this visit. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the threat. After all it was daytime, the refuge of Gryne’s territory wasn’t more than a fast sprint away and he did have Tam Bourke at his side. It was just that Dr Caerleon terrified him. Ned had received a University education and in spite of the efforts of his college masters, had read the most contemporary works, especially the suppressed ones. So when it came to dealing with a master of the arcane arts of astrology, he felt himself learned enough to pierce the usual cloud of superstition and chicanery that surrounded practitioners of prognostication.

In the past Dr Caerleon had proved to be disturbingly perceptive and his analysis of any problem tended to be brutally honest. That clarity undoubtedly had a lot to do with why he was under the protection of Captaine Gryne, using the assumed name of Dr Agryppa. The powerful did not, as a rule, appreciate honesty. The previous year the good Doctor had been ‘officially’ burnt for witchcraft at Smithfield. He was rotting away in one of Bishop Stokesley’s dungeons, with only further long years of darkness to look forward to until the ‘deceased’ had been providentially rescued by Cardinal Wolsey. The now disgraced Cardinal had wanted his own tame astrologer who could assure him that the stars still promised a bright future, full of continuing power and influence. Dr Caerleon was clever enough to give the Cardinal exactly the horoscope he wanted and not the one he needed.

Ned was honest enough with himself to admit that he would have been in several pieces, hanging from spikes scattered around the city by now, if he hadn’t listened to the old man’s advice. The problem was not that Dr Caerleon was right. The learned doctor’s perception of events and people was formidable. It was just that in return for aid last time, Ned had exchanged a promise of performing three tasks. Now this was just like the old tales of the deals with the faeries. To Ned it smacked of much double dealing and slipperiness, since at the time he’d forgotten to get the good doctor to specify exactly what sort of task was recompense. Thus his visits to the Gryne Dragone tended to end just short of the door, in case the redemption of his honour came at too high a price.

At the present he was also harried by one more difficulty, courtesy of his better angel. If this venture failed and if he still lived, it could be necessary to justify to the church authorities the methods employed, in order to save both his life and those of his friends. From past repute, Foxford, the Bishop of London’s vicar general, would relish the chance to examine the taint of dubious dealings upon their souls. Despite the injunctions on forgiveness and compassion to be found within the Bible, the church tended to have a stern attitude about its parishioner’s utilising the dark gifts of prophecy and divination. Well, except of course for His Holiness the Pope and significantly large number of cardinals and archbishops. No doubt their rarefied sanctity provided sufficient protection from the temptations of the devil.

After his usual hospitable welcome at the Gryne Dragone, Ned took up his courage and knocked on the old doctor’s door up on the second storey. Once more the willowy, red haired Nerys ushered him into the arcanely appointed room. She made a most attractive door warden and Ned would have asked her out in a trice, if she didn’t have the twin disadvantages of being the fearsome Captaine Gryne’s favoured daughter and Dr Caerleon’s apprentice in the craft. Those were enough to make even the bravest lad tremble in his boots.

“Master Bedwell you’re late!” A rasping cry greeted his entrance. Ned swallowed nervously. He had learnt from previous visits that catching the old astrologer by surprise was impossible. Whether it was a trick accomplished with spy holes or real magick, it was still daunting.