Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned could see the shocked expression on the face of Belsom as he stepped back and rounded on his partners in an angry squeal. “What’s the powder clerk to do with this? What’s going on Welkin? You assured me it was all fine. You said none knew of the plot!”

However the Master of the King’s Ordinance was more concerned with other matters. He swung around and pointed a trembling hand at his pair of powder sorters. “Edwards! You told me he was dead and dumped in the river!”

Then a further realisation lent a harder, shriller quality to Blackford’s trembling cry. “You treacherous dock rats! It was you selling the powder along the river. I’ll teach you to play the cross biters with me!” Sir Welkin made a fumbled grab at his sword.

Edwards and Watkins drew their own short bladed swords and moved to the side of the wall, away from Blackford, who now stood on the end of the wharf, blade in hand, quivering in rage. The taller one with the peacock’s feather in his cap sneered at his former master. That would be Edwards thought Ned. Mary reckoned he was the brains of the pair, while Watkins was the ready knife. “If yer were fool enough naught t’ see the gilt in this, then damn yerfo’ a mouldy sack maggot!”

The rest of Welkin’s men slowly drew their blades. They looked uncertainly towards their shaken lord, who was backing away from his former powder sorters. Ned could have laughed. Dr Caerleon had said greed would be their weakness.

Edwards didn’t seem fussed by the numbers and called to Belsom. “If’n yer want’s yer cut o’ the gold, you’ll see us safe!”

Sir Roderick seemed torn between his orders and the sudden beckoning of hundreds of golden advantages. The thought of six hundred sovereigns that could remain his seemed too much a temptation for the friendship of traitors. A brisk wave and a dozen of his men cautiously advanced on their former allies. So now there where two or more factions squaring off in the tight space on the dock, lit by the flare of several lanterns. So much for the trusting nature of treachery. Ned wished Gryne’s men hadn’t been bundled into the next door warehouse. Even disarmed they would have created a useful distraction.

The Spaniard, however, was not impressed with the falling out of his English companions. He made some sort of sneering remark to one of the ‘monks’ holding Ned, then turning his back on the scene, shook his head and strode off toward the Tower gate, issuing a chilling command over his shoulder. “Bring Bedwell and Welkin! Kill the rest!”

Before the Spaniard’s monks could oblige, a tall cadaverous figure with long, lanky hair sauntered into the flickering spill of light on the now edgily crowded wharf. “Why bless the saints! It’s me old friend, Red Ned. Why is thou troublin’ an’ threatin’ poor Ned, when all knows I ‘as a prior claim on ‘is hide?”

It was chillingly familiar with the same dangerously lilting cadence from across the river at Southwark. A rush of fear spiralled up Ned’s spine, clearing his head of the pain. What in the name of everything holy was Canting Michael doing here? Asking for him?

Then the wharf exploded-in blood, smoke and steel.

***

If Ned’s first inkling of a change in circumstance was the sudden apparition of Canting Michael, then a firmer hint was the thunder that sounded from down the end of the wharf. An orange-red plume gouged the darkness and Ned could swear he saw the flicker of an object fly between him and the wall to his left. If any of the gathering had been confused by the recent falling out, that was nothing to the chaos caused in the next instant.

Lady Fortuna had a very strange way of cancelling out her favours and rebalancing debts. In this case Clemmie Watkins was its recipient. Ned could see that the Doutch Gonners had downplayed the effects of their charges during their description of battle. The missile must have impacted square on his chest, exploding his torso and spraying his companions in crime and neighbours with an assortment of internal organs. Just for a moment the wharf went silent as all the varied participants looked at the space that once held the former powder sorter. After that all present universally tracked the path of the projectile back to the supposedly empty Ruyter and the falconet that had discharged it.

Then the uproar began and several different events seemed to happen almost simultaneously. Don Juan Sebastian screamed out another order and several of his men seized a shocked Sir Welkin, dragging him towards the landward end of the wharf. A ragged cheer erupted from the formerly deserted ship and a wave of weapon wielding men jumped over its side landing on the wharf. Another body of armed men coalesced around Canting Michael, challenging the passage of Don Juan Sebastian and the thirty odd monks with him.

Unbelievably, Sir Roderick chose that instant to become martially inspired, and waving his sword over his head, commanded his retainers to rally to him. Ned however used the opportunity for something else-getting free.

Already alerted by the disturbing presence of Canting Michael, Ned had been watching for just such a chance. There was no way he was going to stick around for the tender care of the Southwark gang lord. So as the Gonne’s roar snapped the heads of his three guards in the direction of the ship, and after the immediate dissolution of Master Watkins, Ned kicked down hard and threw all his weight backwards breaking their grip.

Even for experienced soldiers who’d served in the bloody fray between the Imperials and the French, at the very instance of combat there was a second’s hesitation as each warrior weighted up his chances of survival. With the frightening use of artillery on the battle field, that decision assumed more importance. Having seen the powder sorter next to them explode, and noting the widening gap between them and of the rest of their company, the ‘monks’ legged it.

Ned was left lying on the wharf, blinking white spots out of his vision and wondering why his head was ringing. Rolling over with a groan, he looked towards the chaotic scene between the ship and him. It was worse than any inter parish footebul game. The lantern’s light gave a pallid illumination of men heaving and struggling together, locked in vicious battle. The pools of light displayed the fight in passing flickers, the descent of cudgels or the sparking clash of blades, while screams of pain survived well enough in the shadows.

Ned shook his head to clear the last of the numbing ache. It didn’t work too well. He pushed himself up with the aid of a supporting timber wall, and tried to figure out the pattern of the fight. From the use of cleavers, he assumed that the rest of Gryne’s promised reinforcements had arrived. They must have rowed across from Bermondsey and silently clambered up the side of the empty ship. Well that was good news!

Another roar punctured the night. Ned instinctively ducked, though he needn’t have bothered. The missile took out two of his three former guards as they’d reached the struggle by Canting Michaels men. Excellent choice! The fight on the dock was too mixed for a clear shot, though Ned did feel a justified sense of satisfaction. The ‘monk’ who’d been punching him was writhing on the ground, holding the bloody stump of his right arm.

The sound of shouts and smashing timber drew Ned’s attention to the other side of the battle. His first contingent of Gryne’s men were trying to break out of their temporary prison, but the heavy door was making that difficult. The other combatants were too engaged in mutual mayhem to take any notice of the cries or hammering on the door.

Ned knew what he had to do, but first he needed some weapons. The swirl of combat was separated into two distinct groups. On his right, five paces away, was the struggle on the dock, while to his left the Canting Michael-Don Juan Sebastian conflict raged on, blocking the narrow roadway past the edge of the dock and its flanking buildings.