Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

This request had not been part of Sir Thomas’s script, and he frowned darkly before giving a wave of assent and dismissal.

Ned bowed deeply. However he didn’t move off as anticipated.

“This matter is concluded, Master Bedwell. The ship is released!”

As a command, Ned really should have obeyed, but still he maintained his patient stance.

“My lord, I am loath to bring up such matters before the most valued servant of His Majesty, one in whom our glorious Sovereign has reposed so much trust and affection, especially on such an important day as this one, with his Great Petition waiting to be signed. However Sir Welkin promised Master Robinson a pension of fifty pounds for his injuries in the King’s service, and advancement.”

The Lord Chancellor pursed his lips into a tight line of disapproval. Ned made note of it, and continued ticking off items on his fingers. That, at least, meant no further interference in the demi cannon casting, and gave Master Robinson a chance to proof his office against any more incompetent appointments. He could also hear Rob’s sigh of relief. In the circumstance, it was the least he could do. The foundry crew had come in very useful and may so again, which is why he’d waved the proffered rescue fee.

“As well my lord, Sir Frederick promised recompense for the defence of the King’s powder of twenty pounds to my men and eighty pounds to Mistress Black’s retainers.” That settled most debts. Ned maintained his respectfully humble bow and avoided eye contact with the Lord Chancellor. He could feel the anger and disapproval washing over him anyway. The silence stretched out and the rest of the band fidgeted nervously under the lengthened strain.

“I shall command it, Master Bedwell.”

From the grating tone, Ned could tell that Sir Thomas would prefer to order his questioning at Chelsea, and just as an extra tweak, Ned pushed that inch more. “My thanks and gratitude, my lord. If you could append your seal, it would ease matters with the officials of the Privy Purse. They have an unfortunate reputation for tardy action”

That audacious demand, framed as a request, shocked his following. Ned could hear the sudden indrawn breath of surprise. Even Skelton suppressed a curse.

The eventual reply came in a musing tone, rich in future promise. “Master Bedwell, Councillor Cromwell advised me that you were a young man to watch. I believe I shall. You are dismissed.”

Ned straightened and gave another deeper bow, dripping with respect and obsequiousness, then led his party out of the audience chamber.

At the last step before he left, a now familiar voice called out. “Master Bedwell, I see that you bear your tokens openly.”

Ned spun around, hiding his surprise at the parting comment. “Yes my lord. I do not believe in concealing my allegiances.” Well no more than necessary.

The Lord Chancellor gave an abrupt wave towards him. “The ring, is it yours?”

This question appeared to be motivated by genuine interest, and as such, puzzled Ned. ‘Yes, my lord. I have it from my mother.”

Sir Thomas More gave Ned a very strange look, as if measuring him up, a comparison if you would, and then, eyes hooded, slowly nodded, in some way satisfied. “At some time in the future, Master Bedwell, we will have to have a talk about the past.”

Another low bow and he escaped. More had some strange notions. It must be all the time spent bent over his quill, refuting Luther.

Once outside the chamber, Skelton was the first to speak. He gave his bushy beard a hefty scratch and then thumped Ned on the back. “That’s a game play lad ta ‘ut bold the Lord Chancellor. Remind me taniver face ye at cards.”

With that parting comment he took Ned’s proffered hand, gripping it like a vice, before strolling off to join the remainder of his band of savage northerners. Last night would have been more of a disaster without Skelton, and Ned had retained a certain amount of gratitude for his rescue and possibly more, if it weren’t for the shots from Byward Tower. Who had Skelton been aiming at, him or Don Juan Sebastian?

“Damn it, Ned. Are you cracked? Baiting More like that is a dangerous risk!” This response from an angry Meg Black was also accompanied by a solid whack.

Ned intercepted a second, and grinning, shook his head. “No. Sir Thomas More lost and he needed to see that he’d lost. Also he needed to be forced to pay recompense for what was tried by his minions.”

Margaret Black scowled at the answer, and disentangled her captured arm. “Doesn’t that stupid posturing declare us as his enemies?”

“Too late. After this week and what he just said, you can have no doubt that we are already listed amongst his foes. If you remember the Ruyter wasn’t chosen by chance. It was a considered action to enhance More’s campaign against heresy and the Boleyn faction.”

She continued to frown at the thought and was clearly not consoled.

“Let me put it another way. After expenses, the Lord Chancellor’s reward should pay for a gross weight of bibles, yes?”

It took a few moments of thoughtful consideration until a generous smile began to unfurl, and Meg Black, to his surprise, grabbed him in a firm embrace, bestowing on him the most shivering kiss imaginable. “Ned Bedwell, there are times when I don’t know what to make of you!”

It would appear that his indiscretion and evasions had been forgiven.

For now.

Ned, for some reason, had forgotten to mention how much rescued Gonne powder he had already organised to sell to Southwark, and as for the salvaged weapons, Rob had arranged a suitably discrete home for them. Of course the bulk of the gold from Sir Roderick Belsom’s thoughtful donation was now locked away with an accommodating goldsmith, once it had been extracted from the obliging corpse of Joachim. A useful, if revolting, hidey hole that even the murderous powder sorters hadn’t considered, and for now the gold need not concern the Company of the Cardinal’s Angels. As for the origins of the affair, the murders and compensation were too dangerous and complex a case for any court to deal with, so Ned had made other arrangements. ‘Master Hagan’ was sending the bodies’ home along with a letter of condolence and purse of fifty sovereigns to Joachim’s widow. The lamented Hanse merchant had, before his ‘untimely demise’, signed his Steelyard business concerns across to his beloved godchildren, Robert and Margaret Black, which Ned hoped would help for a time assuage Meg’s suspicious questioning. By next week Albrecht should be safely ensconced in Lubeck, and if he was smart, have a new name.

Another more problematic reward had been to Mary’s Petty Wales punks who’d assisted Rob with the falconets. He’d arranged for Rob to deal with that, ahh, grey area in whatever manner or cost seemed right. At the present, in light of Meg Black’s current kind regard, and to avert a return of possible wrath, he’d keep the girls at arms length, if not a touch further.

Having dealt with the King’s Powder and the Queens’ Oranges, the only difficulty left was the two chests from Sir Welkin. Whom that gold belonged to was up for question, so Ned had the chest sent to Dr Caerleon. It could repose under his supervision until Ben Robinson worked out if the King’s Office of Ordinance had been short changed. However he’d made one provision from it for the realm. The rag tag crew of children under Mistress Emma had proved more valuable than their diminutive statue would have indicated. A quiet annuity of, say, fifteen pounds a year, would see them healthier, faster and able to read, a very useful skill for intelligencers and perhaps a wise investment for the future. So what Mistress Black didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him.