Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned stepped through the cloud beside the fitfully sparkling maw a pistol in each hand. “Yield! Yield I say or I’ll have your souls!”

He must’ve looked like a demon from hell, for several hardened retainers flinched and cried out that Satan was here. He tried a bit of extra stage setting by having sections of burning slow match sticking out of his doublet and looped around his neck. Belsom must have been particularly affected or had a stricken conscience, for he screamed, dropped his sword and fled down the dock. They say that fear lends wings. In this case he needed a bit more, for as he ran his sword hanger straps became entangled with the polyen wing on his gilded thigh armour. He staggered on for a pace until it twitched his stiffened leather scabbard between his ankles. The pursuivant’s clumsiness may have been recoverable, except that Ned chose that moment to level his second pistol and fired. Whether it was from the impact of the ball or not didn’t matter. More’s retainer flinched at its near passage, and as a result, Sir Roderick Belsom, fully rigged in his gilded half armour and helm weighing at least forty pounds in all, and with a despairing wail and terminal splash, tumbled off the side of the wharf into the dark waters of the Thames.

At the disappearance of their lord, the last of his men dropped their weapons and called for quarter. Ned pushed through the crowd and unbarred the prison door, releasing an eager flood, before sagging with relief against the wall.

“Ned! Ned!”

A chorus of shouts pulled him out of his exhausted daze. He turned to see the broad shouldered figure of Rob Black pushing through the cheering crowd of Gryne’s men. Reaching Ned’s side, Rob grabbed him around the waist, lifting him high. “Ned, I saw what you did. It was amazing!”

Ned pummelled Rob on the shoulder all the while trying to breathe.

“Rob, Rob y’ pillock! Let poor Ned down. ‘e’s a tryin’ fo’ a breath!”

It was a sweetly familiar voice and Rob responded to it instantly, apologising for his eagerness. Ned staggered for moment and sketched a brief bow to one of Rob’s pair of Amazon Gonners

“My thanks Lizzie, but how did you get here?”

“Why thank y’s Ned. We wuz in the same wherry as dear Rob ‘ere.”

Ned took another deep breath of clean, free air and looked at the cluster around Rob again. A lot of his crew had skirts-in fact all of them did. The riverside punks from yesterday had returned.

“What are you doing here?” Ned tried very hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The extra Gryne’s men he expected, but not half of Petty Wales!

Rob, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed before he stammered out a reply. “Ahh well… That is, ahh… I thought…”

The painful effort was interrupted by Mary who pushed in front of Rob and stood with hands on hips, looking defiantly up at Ned. “Y’r friend ‘ere told us of what wuz going t’ ‘appen.We arn’t high and mighty like them that trots around wit the Lord Mayor, but tis our ‘ome too!”

That got a very loud cheer from the assembly. Ned was impressed, and not a little humbled. None of the guilds had come out to help, but a rag tag of street girls had.

Rob, it seemed, had recovered his voice. He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and pulled him close, gesturing down the river. “Ned, while we were loading the falconet, I saw a string of torches and lanterns off past St Katherine’s. They’re heading this way!”

Ned wearily shook his head-it hurt. That would have to be stage two of the plan, the men to wear the harnesses stored in the ship. Just what was he going to do now? He gave a deep sigh and looked around. Damn, damn, damn and Satan’s merry devils! He’d made such a fuss of proclaiming his right to command all this week to no avail, and here were fifty men and girls all looking expectantly at him, waiting for his orders and he didn’t have a clue.

Searching for inspiration he looked towards the road. The way was clear. No sign of either Canting Michael or Don Juan Sebastian, just a pile of dead and groaning bodies. He gave a silent pray that they’d offed each other, but apart from the open space he had no instant solution. Except for what was here-fifty men and girls.

Fifty men and girls?

Fifty men and girls!

Of course!

And two Great Gonnes!

***

Ned stood at the end of the bridge, nervously waiting for the marching column to arrive. His palms felt wet and clammy and he could’ve sworn his legs were trembling. So much for being a great leader, his daemon scathingly remarked! At least he had the reassuring presence of Tam Bourke. The mercenary stood beside him holding high the lantern that gave a dim luminance. The wavering lights of the column came closer and Ned could even make out the menacing glint of spear point and bill. He’d been right in his estimation. At four men a rank, there was well over two hundred in the contingent. This waiting was nerve wracking. His tongue felt dryer than rawhide.

Finally, at the other end of the bridge, the column came to a halt and several horsemen rode forward under a shrouded banner. Their hooves rang hollowly as they came onto the bridge.

Ned stepped forward, and in what he hoped was a commanding voice, called out. “Halt in the King’s name!”

The clatter of hooves stopped, except for one rider who slowly edged his horse forward. “Who calls upon us and where is Sir Roderick?”

Ned swallowed. Now they were for it. “I’m Edward Bedwell, pursuivant to Councillor Thomas Cromwell, and I have a warrant from the Privy Council. Sir Belsom is dead. He fell during a brawl earlier this evening!”

Ned felt that was sufficient to make them pause. Two more riders moved forward to join their perplexed companion, and Ned could hear the edge of a discussion. They sounded confused. All the horsemen now trotted to the end of the bridge, and Ned could see their commander was dressed in a more functional version of half armour than the late Sir Roderick. Also, unlike the late unlamented knight, this gentleman had all the presence and manner of a soldier complete with a great Landsknecht style beard. His flankers were also similarly well armed with the look of hard eyed veterans. Ned swallowed again. These were professionals.

“I’m Captaine Harris I was given an Order of Array to bring my Companie here to suppress rioting. Are you telling me there is no disorder?”

Ned felt he’d waited long enough. He raised his hand, and behind him several lanterns were unhooded, revealing the rest of his company in all it martial splendour.

A couple of the horses reared and snorted at the surprise, but not the commander. Captaine Harris kept a firm hand on his rein, rock steady, instead leaning forward to survey the troops before him. It was a long measured minute before he spoke. “Master Bedwell, I note some of your companie are wearing dresses…and ribbons!”

“Yes Captaine. Southwark and Petty Wales Ward Muster, they’re a new parish Companie.” Well it was the best he could come up with at the time. Rob had broken out the hidden armour and everybody wore some of it, even Mary’s punks. Thus Ned stood there in a short leather covered steel brigandine and a polished helm. At a distance and in the dark he’d hoped it looked intimidating.

The commander it seemed wasn’t so easily impressed. “Master Bedwell, if I give the order my men will sweep this lot away.”

It was a simple statement of fact. Even with Gryne’s men, Ned knew they couldn’t stop a determined advance. “True Captaine. However…”

Ned gave another wave and his company split in two. They moved off the centre of the road revealing the pair of Great Gonnes and several falconets lashed to a small dray behind the front ranks. Rob stood between them, lit linstock in hand.