Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

The bearded commander gave a very slow nod. London rag tag he could discount, but backed by Gonnes? The man wasn’t a fool or an unskilled, puffed up, glory hound like Sir Belsom. He understood the mathematics of modern warfare. Captaine Harris paused, his head sunk to his chest. Ned knew that at this instant it all depended on the commander’s cold calculation of profit and loss. The lives of all them weighed in the swaying balance of Lady Fortuna.

Finally the commander straightened up, gave a short half bow and tilted his head. “Master Bedwell, I believe we passed a very good Inn a few miles back, the Harts Ease and since there’s no longer a riot, we’ll retire there.”

“That, captaine, would be an excellent idea. As a reward for your loyalty, my master wishes you to have this.” Ned untied his replenished purse, and presented it to the bowing horseman.

Captaine Harris weighed the present in his hand, and broke into a slow smile.

Ned returned his own bow of respect, according to Usages of War. “Captaine, I recommend you all, drink to the health of His Sovereign Majesty.” As if any soldier needed an excuse to have a tankard of ale!

“My thanks Master Bedwell.Would that all my marches were so profitable.” With that the captaine gave an abrupt wave and trotted back to his company.

Ned could hear a series of loud commands, and the clatter and shuffling of soldiers preparing to move. He’d made a fervent prayer that they’d see sense. Then a moment or two’s hesitation and the lights of the column began to move back down the river.

His company gave a wild cheer and Tam Bourke clapped him on the shoulder almost felling him. “Well done, Ned. Ye’ll make a fine captaine!”

His company crowded around, slapping him on the back and kissing him. The first from Gryne’s men had to be endured. The second from the Petty Wales punks he enjoyed despite their helmets almost boffing him on the nose.

In the midst of these celebrations another sound intruded, the clatter of arms and shouts from behind them! “Ware! There’s a company a heading this way!”

Ned could have cursed. He’d forgotten about Don Juan Sebastian. It looked like he wanted the bridge clear. With no time to swing the heavy Gonnes, Ned rallied his band to face about. The dim pools of lanterns swung closer. He’d put Gryne’s men in the front rank. Mary’s punks may have been willing, but donning on a suit of Almain Rivet and waving a pole arm didn’t make them warriors.

“Ho. Tis Red Ned wit’ ye?” A loud coarse voice rang out from the approaching band.

Ned could have sagged with relief and cursed at the same time. It was that damned northerner and his heavily armed lads. “I’m here Skelton. Come no further! What do you want?” Ned didn’t step forward. He felt quite safe as it was.

“That Spanish cur. Has ye seen ‘im ‘ere?”

“He was with thirty men dressed as monks. That was back by the wharf during the fight. I haven’t seen him since and he didn’t come this way.”

That answer received an interesting stream of northern dialect swearing. From the invective, it sounded rightly profane. Ned was glad he didn’t understand the barbarous tongue. “Well, I can deliver a summons ta ye. Ye lass an’ her friend wants ye back at the dock. She seems a mickle distraught lad.”

Ned wasn’t sure if this was another trap by Norfolk’s man, and he wasn’t taking chances either way. “I’ll meet you there, Skelton.”

“Aye lad. See ye keep an eye o’tfor’n that Spaniard!” The band of northerners turned and jogged back the way they’d come.

Ned wasn’t so eager to follow without precautions. He left Rob in charge of the Gonnes with the Petty Wales punks, the Ruyter sailors and a dozen of Gryne’s men just in case. The rest formed a solid block at his back and they hurriedly tramped back towards the Tower Wharf. Well at least he could find out what Meg Black was so teary about.

And now his better angel gave him a pointed reminder of what that could be- a dead Ben Robinson. Ahh, that could be it. For a moment shame overwhelmed him. Damn, Ben was a good friend and he’d failed him!

Distraught? How in the seven levels of hell could Skelton call her distraught! The northerner was leaning against the wall, an amused grin on his face, and flanked by his laughing retinue. Ned would have challenged the lying sheep fondler there and then, if he didn’t have more pressing matters. Even Tam Bourke, his solid shield, had shirked his paid duty.

“You miserable measle-brained idiot! The Good Lord spare me from the stupidity of men!” The rage of Meg Black had surpassed anything he’d seen before. She stood there, hands on hips, incandescent with righteous wrath, eyes glowing and hair sparking with anger.

“Damn you for an ungrateful shrew Meg Black! I saved your ship, your cargo and killed Belsom! I stopped his men from plundering the city, spoiled their scheme and saved your life!”

“You louse pricked fool. They weren’t important! It’s Don Juan Sebastian who led the plot!”

“No he was just the messenger. How could he be in charge anyway?”

“I fear Ned lad, the lass has it aright. The Spaniard’s the head o’ the treachery.”

Ned swung around to look at Skelton. The northerner actually appeared to believe that. “How do you know?” he asked suspiciously.

“Cos o’ yon braw heid clerk.” Skelton waved over towards the shadows past the warehouse were Ouze was supporting a hobbling figure.

Ned suddenly felt a rush of relief. There was no mistaking that gleaming dome and prominent nose. “You found Master Robinson!”

“Aye lad. Twas where ye said he’d be a muckin’ about wit the powder, though the Spaniard weren’t there as ye promised.”

Ned heard the threat in that. Skelton still wanted his pound of flesh. A slap across his face reminded him of the ignored Meg.

“Ned Bedwell! Where’s the Spaniard? The whole idea of letting you run loose was to capture Don Juan Sebastian!” Now that was typical. Meg Black thought she was in charge of the venture.

Ned felt a very justified surge of anger. “Me? You were supposed to catch him, as he went to set off the powder at the old abbey! That’s why I sent you there with Skelton!”

“Ahh lad. We did in a few monks on the way, some dozen or so, but nay Spanish catamite.”

Another voice broke through the growing argument. “Ahh Ned. That wasn’t what Don Juan Sebastian had planned. I overheard Watkins and Edwards talking about it.”

Master Robinson had arrived. He sounded a little hoarse and looked blacker and grimier than a turd carter. Ned hoped the colour had more to do with his recent trade than the effects of the powder sorters’ ‘encouragements’.

“Well if he didn’t plan on blowing up the city, what was he going to do?” That may have come out a little waspishly, but it had been a really rough night so far, and his tolerance had fled with the blow from an ungrateful Meg Black.

And no surprise to Ned she interrupted everyone. “Blow up the Tower you dolt!”

Oh no! Ned ignored the fierce scowl of Meg Black and looked up at the darker bulk of the Tower wall. Could the Spaniard do that? For once his angel and daemon were in unison-they both vehemently whispered definitely.

***

Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels!

Those numbers were a litany of doom that revolved in his thoughts. What kind of unimaginable destruction could you wrought with that great quantity? Ned would’ve cursed himself for a fool. How could anyone be so moonstruck as to encompass such a plan? To think he’d actually thought himself rather clever with the solution he’d come up with. Having seized the Tower it seemed so simple to hold it and use it to set fire to the eastern part of the city. Wasn’t that what those two hundred or so men he’d turned back were for?