Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned was at the point of jumping up and running from the room when Dr Caerleon gave a triumphant cry and pinned a symbol with his finger. “Aha! I knew I’d seen it! This is their only mutual flaw, Master Bedwell, and your only chance! All these men are prey to the canker of distrust. The stars indicate they are so disparate that cooperation is only out of the shared bond of interlocking interest.”

That wasn’t much to base any plan upon. And for another thing, it also implied a closer acquaintance between his enemies than he was hoping for. So that was it? Trust? Ned was painfully aware that if he wished to live out the night a few more questions needed answering, but how to discover such elusive answers from an unpredictable Dr Caerleon?

The actors at the Inns would insist that such a revelation required some earth shattering pronouncement such as a peal of thunder or the low toned voice of a prophet wreathed in sulphurous fumes. Instead Ned had recalled the two salvaged coins and unwrapped them from within his kerchief. Some may call what he was going to try pure hedge wizardry, and Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, a modern man in learning and knowledge, may have been expected to sneer at it as unfounded superstition.

If…

If it wasn’t for a childhood spent in the fields of Essex. It was old Will Acton, a man of many skills and prodigious thirst. The local justice and the parish priest both loathed him, supposing he was the root of the villagers disdain for lawful authority and their missing tithes. The people of the village thought differently, and if they lost anything like a beast or had a problem to solve, then it was his door they’d come knocking on first. He had an uncanny ability to help out. Well, one day he showed a young, inquisitive Ned how he did it. A pray to St Michael and two fresh willow branches held loosely in his hand and, as if by magic, they pointed the way to the stray lamb, or hinted at a solution to a rancorous dispute. How amazed Ned had been at the success of this simple method, and it was that memory that caused him to put the two mismatched coins onto the charts. “Dr Caerleon, you are an astrologer of great experience and deep learning. I realise this could be considered a petty request and maybe not worthy of your talents, but could you tell me where these were bound?”

The old doctor gave the proffered coins a deep frown and made a ‘tsktsk’ sound before nudging the coins away with his quill. “Master Bedwell, scrying is not my skill.”

Ned spirits sank. Well it had been worth a try. He started to pick them up but abruptly Caerleon’s lean hand shot out and, grabbed his arm, halting the move.

“However there may be one who does.”

Ned tried to pull his arm away, but the old astrologers’ grip was as strong as iron. “You have sworn me three tasks, Edward Bedwell and before Twelfth Night has come you will redeem one. Swear it now!”

Caerleon’s eyes sparkled under his grey bushy brows as if kindling fire from the very air. Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand stiff and straight like a boar’s bristles. His angel screamed for him to escape while his whispering daemon hid. Ned wrenched his arm free and glowered at the physician. “I swore once Caerleon. I’ve not broken my pledge! If I live your three tasks are still my bond.”

The astrologer lent back and stoked his beard, a wintery smile on his face, and called out in a commanding tone. “Nerys!”

For the second time the astrologer’s assistant stepped forward. During these consultations Ned frequently forgot her presence. For such an attractive girl she had an uncanny ability to fade into the background. That was the reverse of her father. When Captaine Gryne strode into a room everybody knew it, though frequently those inside tried to leave by any available exit. Debt collection could be a socially challenging occupation.

Nerys picked up the pair of coins and thoughtfully rubbed them with the tips of her fingers. “These were hidden in an orange.”

Though Ned’s hairs still quivered with a tingling apprehension, he forced himself not to succumb to Caerleon’s player’s tricks. So with the coins still covered in the sticky juice, Ned considered that a pretty safe guess. However he gave a brief nod and maintained his polite, distant interest.

“They was several more.”

Another safe guess.

“They was in a wicker basket.”

Oranges were usually carried that way.

“They was travelling in a boat.”

Well, of course. They did have to come from Spain.

“They wasgoin’ down the river.”

The common form of transport in London.

“They wasgoin’ into a castle.”

There were a few castles on the river. Ned could name a dozen, Bayard castle for one.

“They wasgoin’ into a room.”

This trick was getting threadbare. Of course it would be in a room.

“They was going into a iron shod box.”

Yes, that’s where most sensible people keep gold and silver. Ned felt the cold prickling at the nape of his neck and a shot of sparks as her green eyes looked deep into his. Suddenly his mouth tasted of flat iron as Nerys’ words echo in his skull.

“Ye wassittin’ on the box.”

He shivered and restrained the impulse to cross himself. It was an uncanny gift and according to the church, tainted by association with the Devil.

“Ye knows where that box is.”

It was not a question, and he could hear the certainty in her voice. Somehow according to Nerys, Ned had already seen where all the gold was going. He shivered as both his angel and daemon promptly scurried into a deep, deep hidey hole.

It was a very distracted Ned who made his farewells, and he was still in a shocked daze as he sat down in the common area of the tavern. He couldn’t even recall if he’d paid Dr Caerleon, though he supposed he must have. The last words of Nerys continued to buzz around his head like an annoying insects. No matter, he had other business to transact.

A request to the pot boy brought Captaine Gryne sauntering over to his table. He sat down, and from the way the bench bent under the impost, it might have been a green sapling rather than iron-hard, aged oak. The leader of Gryne’s Men had earned his position by his strength and size. He kept it by the cunning mind that the fearsome scarred visage hid.

“Aye Ned, wot ye be wantin’?” Gryne growled.

Most sensible men would tremble at that tone. Ned however had learnt to listen for the inflection of tolerant amusement. He’d gained the impression that Captaine Gryne looked upon the antics of Red Ned Bedwell in the same manner as a courser of hounds would a stumbling puppy; eager, amusing and showing possible promise.

“Tonight I need all your men at the Ruyter before sunset.”

The master of mercenaries tugged on his long, forked beard and frowned deeply. “Nay Ned. Canna do it.”

“What! Why not?” That wasn’t even close to the answer he’d been expecting. He’d always got on well with the fearsome Captaine, and made a point of paying cash and a bonus for the services of his men. It didn’t do to have him as a creditor.

“I can double the pay!” Thanks to recent circumstances he could draw on adequate funds.

“It’s nay the gilt Ned. All the lads are bought and paid fo’-none left.”

That was grim news indeed. He’d hoped for a sizable reinforcement. At the long face Gryne patted Ned on the shoulder in rough sympathy. “Seein’ it’sye’self, Red Ned, I’ll let ye have four men t’ keep ye well. But just t’ be sure, can ye pay now, all ye owe?”

Ned gave a wry smile at the request. News of his chances after dark had spread pretty quickly, not that he could accuse Gryne of avarice. The mercenary contractor was careful with his reputation and gave good value for the gold. The four extra men could be depended upon to give their blood in his defence-until circumstances terminated the contract. A dead man’s gold bound no one