Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

The apparition became more solid as another hand snaked out from the darkness and secured his right arm in a vicelike grip. The pale face of his newly acquired daemon thrust forward, inspecting his blacked features with a curiously hungry intensity. “Red Ned, ‘ave y’ done ‘ll the powder o’ the devil?”

What a stupid question from a daemon! Ned nodded and coughed and would have collapsed but for the support of the clenching hands.

“On the roofs, arghh!The fireworks…to set them off.” That’s all he got out before a violent fit of coughing strangled his breath.

“Thank y’, Red Ned. I’ll leave y’ now, though I’s still ‘ave claim on y’. That’s naught settled.” The grim apparition disappeared and Ned collapsed to the stone floor, trying to quell his rebellious stomach. The stench of brimstone was overwhelming. Slowly both the smoke and his sight cleared and the London air grew sweet as he eagerly sucked it in. Ned crawled over to the other side of the Tower. Amazingly the barrel still stood in place, covered in a layer of thick black soot, as was the rest of the ramparts. He gave it a tap and it fell over, spewing a plume of fine black dust. He could have cursed. He could have laughed. What he did do was shake his head in wry amusement. Dr Caerleon had been right-greed had held sway and became it’s own downfall. Lady Fortuna had blessed him. Don Juan Sebastian’s culminating trump card was one of the powder sorter’s remixed barrels.

***

Ned pushed himself upright with a heartfelt groan. From the incessant ringing of the bells, and the light pouring in through the open shutter, it must be the seven of the clock in the morning of Sunday 11th June. The day looked bright and glorious, but he didn’t feel it at all. The bruises hurt, all of them. His throat felt like sand paper, and the burns on his hands stung as he flexed them. As for his aching ribs, he preferred not to dwell on the possibilities. Having taken stock of his painful catalogue, and now a touch less bleary eyed, Ned bleakly surveyed his accommodation. Well surprise, surprise! Back in the damned shipmaster’s cabin again! Though for the first time in a week his muzzy instinct no longer trembled at the hungry presence of ghosts. Maybe their souls had been assuaged by last night’s red handed vengeance. Or perhaps ending of the affair with the Gonne powder had liberated their spirits. Either way a touch of ease flickered within him.

Well this was the day that would see them freed or condemned. Ned had prepared as much as he could. The rest was up to the providence of the Lord and the good sense of the Lord Chancellor. One he could pray for while the other was…uncertain. As he eased himself off the bunk a light rap sounded from the door, and his temporary retainer, Ouze, let himself in. Gryne’s men had performed many varied tasks this last week, ranging from protection to whore mastery and door wardens. This time Ouze was acting the chamber groomsman and arrived bearing a complete set of fresh clothes. That was doubly welcome. After the continued fracas and wear and tear, he was unsure whether he had anything left suitable to wear to a court summons.

In the light of the morning the dress doublet acquired a subtle shimmer that made him reach out and finger the cloth in amazement. This wasn’t any of his apparel. The rich silver thread brocade was well beyond his means. An intricate pattern of silk embroidery caught his eye. It was set above the heart, just below the left shoulder and no more than a few inches across. It didn’t have to be any larger. It would appear that the Duke of Norfolk had kept at least part of his promise. Ned was now shielded by the Howard crest, so long as he accepted the gift.

That was a difficult decision. He was supposed to be Cromwell’s man. His good lord hadn’t so far been very supportive in this last week, except for the tainted writ that had them scrabbling all over the place, dealing with the Queen’s plot. Serving members of the Privy Council could be a very thankless task, as he’d found. The place was awash with rivalry and deadly intrigue. So what was he to make of this gift of fine clothing? Ned hadn’t received anything from Cromwell, not even via the usual heavy hand of his Uncle Richard. For a man so attuned to the shifting currents of favour and fortune, that was unusual. The only message was the writ, and the handing over, seemingly, to the dubious friendship of Skelton and his master.

Ned took out the much used piece of parchment from his leather script, and once more examined the document. It looked the same as when it was presented. So what was he supposed to read into it, apart from the obvious words. Codes were unlikely. So what else?

It charged him to first examine the Queen’s household, then investigate the matter of the murder of the Hanse and anything connected. For a writ that was extremely broad and irregular, and could in the wrong hands, be utilised for all manner of abuses. His daemon prodded him to examine it afresh. Usually such freedom of action was highly irregular, unless you paid for it. With an effort, Ned pushed his memory back to the start of the week, to the interview with his lord and master, and then cursing, leant closer into the shaft of light.

In the short space of time betwixt Ned’s plea and when the writ was thrust into his eager hands, Cromwell had only penned a few lines. He couldn’t have written it all, and now it was as plain as day. Damn him for an unobservant fool. This could’ve helped unravel the mess earlier! From the style of the lettering, Sir Thomas had already filled out the bulk of the warrant before. All he had done in Ned’s presence was the last codicil regarding the murder and added his signature. The Royal official had already sniffed out a plot and appeared to be a few steps ahead of everyone else.

Ned’s prior association with Cromwell had already taught him the man was all cold cunning and calculation. The normal rules of chivalric honour and usage didn’t apply. As his daemon hinted, it was even possible Cromwell had arranged the foiling of this scheme to gain the good graces of Norfolk. His lord and master had done nothing to protect or deflect Ned from Skelton. Now he considered it, Norfolk’s man did arrive with a providentially large retinue, and had a lot more knowledge of the complex situation than Ned would’ve thought. Damn these decadent times! They were awash with treachery and deceit! His daemon promised that this two handed act of his ‘good lord’ wasn’t going to be forgotten!

One part still had him puzzled. How did Canting Michael fit into this? Who did he serve? After the dramatic conclusion on Lion’s Tower, Tam had half carried him down to the gate, and filled him in on a few of the more bizarre details. It had been Canting’s men who had been fighting Don Juan Sebastian’s monks outside Lion bulwark. They had broken through and surged across the bridge. Their leader waved his own Privy Council warrant before Ben Robinson, and passed into the Tower proper, in the hunt for monks. So Ned’s vision on the rampart hadn’t been his imagination. Canting had popped up too often in this affair for it to be chance. As to the connecting circumstances, Ned would have to sort that out later.

Thinking about convenient circumstances automatically lead him to Mistress Black. Her advanced knowledge and more than excellent timing with events couldn’t be ascribed to the providential hand of God! That two-faced, conniving apothecary’s apprentice knew too damned much! Where, why and how, he promised himself to find out.

Finally Ned came to a decision. He donned the gifted doublet. Then he hung another earlier present around his neck, a silver chain with the badge of Cromwell, and to finish the proclamation of his allegiances, the crested ring inherited from his mother. He didn’t care that More was known to loath his family, or that it could be considered a red rag to a bull. He was mostly proud of being a Rich, even if only a bastard one.