Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

The first trembling voice of the First Inquisitor rounded on the interrupter. “Well, have your useless men search the ship again. God’s teeth! I wouldn’t trust such a bunch of broken tipsters and drunkards to find their own buttocks!”

Somewhere within Ned was a part of him, probably somewhat removed from such mundane considerations as the urgent need to breath or perhaps to vomit, that was secretly pleased. That part of him rubbed its metaphorical hands together and thought, good, the plan works.

“G’n-n p’der.” It came out more as a wheeze than anything coherent, but it drew his inquisitors closer.

“Shut up, you maggoty weasel! It doesn’t matter about the gold, you old fool,” hissed the Second Inquisitor . His tone was high pitched and urgent, brimming with anger and incipient panic. “What, what was that about the weapons, Ned? I didn’t hear it.”

At this dismissive rebuke from his companion, the First Inquisitor quivered with outrage. It seemed he was deeply unimpressed with the present line of questioning and spluttered his retort. “What…what the damnation do you meant-it doesn’t matter and forget it! Six hundred pounds of my gold is missing, you lard arsed measle!”

And now the Second Inquisitor left off his pursuit of secrets and turned to his quivering partner. “You addlepated buffoon. We need the weapons now . We’ll find the gold later!”

Before the First Inquisitor could muster a suitably vindictive reply, Ned took a much needed breath and quickly slipped in another gem of truth, interrupting the exchange of insults. “Gonne powder, twenty four barrels!”

The First Inquisitor didn’t take this revelation well. “What! What did he say about Gonne powder?”

“Arghh, he’s said naught o’ use. Slit ‘is throat now I’s reckon.”

Ned felt a trickle of ice run down his spine. Oh for the love of Jesus, no. It was the Third Inquisitor . That evil voice had luckily stayed in the background, only occasionally giving out useful hints for the removal of fingers or eyeballs to assay the truth of the question.

“Theez is all wasting time,” chimed in the final Fourth Inquisitor . He’d mostly held himself aloof from the proceedings, primarily barking out the odd order or sneering hiss of frustration. “The night pazzes on, and you stand here arguing over triflez! When theez is done you’ll each be richer than you can imagine!”

That was a very familiar Castilian lisp, and now quivering on the edge of anger too.

“Oi! Listen t’ the frog. He speaks sense he does. Leave the brat. We’ll work him over later!” Of course the Third Inquisitor would say that. He sounded desperately eager to get on with his plans for the night-spending ‘quality time’ with Ned.

The sound of a blow and a snarled curse punctuated the discussion. “I ez not French, you sozzle brained, English dog futterer!” Apparently the Fourth Inquisitor had a much shorter fuse to his temper than the others.

Ned would have smiled except it hurt. Instead he managed to utter a few more phrases for the cause. “Signed a bill, fo’ two hundred sovsfo’ the ship.”

“What? Did you say two hundred? Why Belsom, you pot bellied cozener, where’s the rest? I gave you six hundred!”

At the latest confession the First Inquisitor lost his last restraints of temper and trust, bleating like an enraged sheep. “He’s lying, you fool! Where are the Hanse and the girl?”

Belsom, forgoing his role of Second Inquisitor , gripped Ned tightly by the doublet and shook him like a doll. They say a good rage lends strength to the body, and Belsom tried lifting the apprentice lawyer up. Unfortunately for the pursuivant, his short stature and Ned’s height foiled the attempt.

“They’s gone. S’true. Got a Gl’smits bill wit’ the powder!” This was a bit slurred but so far they’d only stopped hitting him while the competing interests worked out which part they wanted to hear.

Another face pushed into view, equipped with a very large, red, wrinkled nose. Ahh, Blackford was now keen to shed his dispassionate role as First Inquisitor and attempted his own grab for Ned. The Tower officer looked distinctly nervous and upset, dabbing furiously at his throat with a grimy kerchief. “You say there’s a bill with the powder. Where is it Bedwell?”

If it weren’t for the beefy ‘monks’ holding him back, Sir Welkin would have clutched Ned’s throat in desperation. His eyes looked like they were popping out with the strain. Perhaps he should have considered the problems of cutting deals with traitors.

“Wit’ the two dozen barrels of powder at the stern, behind the planks.” Ned got that out very fast, before the distraught figure of Sir Welkin was once more pushed out of the way by his shorter and rounder companion.

Sir Welkin, now clearly distraught, waved a hand towards the group of monks. “You three, search the ship again!”

The monks in the line of his commanding finger shrugged and looked towards their leader. The Fourth Inquisitor stepped out from the veil of the shadows and gave an exasperated curse in Spanish as he glanced between the vessel and the dark bulk of the Tower. But apart from frowning in exasperation, Don Juan Sebastian made no move.

Belsom, however, was keener to find his promised victims than the missing gold or Gonne powder, and once more had his hands clenched on Ned’s doublet. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where have they got to, Bedwell?”

A further attempted shake rattled his brain. Ned tried to stay focused but the punches and slaps had blurred his thinking, not to mention what demands the pain was making on his ringing head.

With about as much success as a gnat at a bull, Sir Welkin tried to pull Belsom around to answer his shrill demands. “What’s all this about powder and a bill? Belsom, what swindle are you trying? You told me he accepted six hundred for the ship and everything. So where are they?”

“Shut up, you pizzle brained idiot! We’ve got to find out where the girl and the merchant are for tomorrow! Those are the orders. He was very emphatic. It’s us or them! The powder and the bill is moonshine. Isn’t it Bedwell?”

Belsom was shaking with red faced anger. Apparently he really needed those weapons. Or was it something else? Ned tried to connect the reasoning and it came back to him in a rush. More’s pursuivant was the strong arm behind the powder trade. How else could Edwards and Watkins strut along the riverside so carelessly? That would make the next part all the easier.

“To Hell and all with the girl and your master! What deal did you make with Bedwell and the Hanse?” Sir Welkin was beginning to sound desperate. His money had vanished and his partner was only concerned with the hidden ironware.

Ned managed a bleary eyed glance around. The minions were starting to look edgy, nervously fiddling with their sword hilts, while the large band of ‘monks’ that had arrived with the Spaniard clearly looked disgruntled, muttering amongst themselves.

“They’s at Petty Wales fo’ the p’wder clerk and the rest o’ the barrels!” That came out mostly right, except for the gobbet of blood he spat out. That last blow must have cut the inside of his cheek open. It was well worth it though. That last little snippet of information had set off more discord and discontent, more fracturing of purpose. It always helped the story along to add in a touch of truth.

“I ses kill ‘im now!” The evil voice of the Third Inquisitor returned and resolved into the snarling features of Clemmie Watkins. He still looked keen, though this time his eyes sparked more with angry panic than anticipation.