It was late afternoon by the time Ned and Rob made it over to the Liongate of the Tower, hard by Petty Wales. It had taken a little longer than expected since they had to make a few detours off Woodroff Lane, towards St Olaves, due to a virulent dispute between several carters and a score of builders and merchants. Apparently one of the heavy carts had clipped the corner post of some scaffolding and brought the three storey structure toppling down, blocking the road. Even at a score yards distance, they could both see that the small scale disaster was rapidly escalating, with raging dispute and blame drawing in a larger audience. Years of living in the chaos of the city created its own unique set of instincts, and Ned could feel that edgy tremble in the voices of the gathering crowd that bespoke affray, if not bloody riot. He wondered if news of the last nights slaying had tinged the nervous city’s mood, not that that Londoners held the Hanse merchants in anything but the usual loathing reserved for foreigners. Despite that disdain, More’s recent campaign and the rumours of war abroad meant that any event could trigger a repeat of the Evil May Day riots that had seen hundreds of foreigners beaten and murdered by rioting apprentices.
To curtail the prospect of violence or affray on another front, Ned had sent a message from the Bee Skep via one of the many urchins that hung around the tavern. He’d carefully written a very neutral note for Meg Black, hopefully stalling any plans of hers for precipitous action. He hadn’t gone into detail or mentioned the risks entailed in the acceptance of the writ. One never knew how many hands or eyes such missives passed by. Ned had seen the results of such an error last year with the Cardinal’s letters. All he could hope was that Margaret Black would use some of that common sense he knew she possessed in annoying abundance. He prayed that the headstrong apothecary’s apprentice would withhold from anything violent, like throwing a few of More’s men into the river. In the meantime he had another duty to deal with.
The grey walls of the King’s fortress cum palace, with its looming suggestion of menace from the tall towers and the dark frowning cavern of the gate, were the same as his last visit. From what Ned recalled from his studies and schooling, it had been built by King William the Conqueror, constructed from a white Norman stone, a visible ‘symbol’ to Saxon Londoners of his reach and power.
In these more enlightened times under the Tudors, it served more as a reminder of the King’s presence and royal lineage, possibly better than the collection of buildings, courts and palaces at Westminster, whereas those were the usual concourse of royal-commoner interaction, in the way of appeals, writs and judgements. The Tower, sitting on the eastern flank of the city, spelled out the iron resolve behind the clerk’s quill. In the scribe’s parlance, it was titled ‘the buttress of the city’ a sure defence from waterborne threat, while at every Royal celebration, the belching thunder of Gonnes gave the city an added thrill. The darker side of the roiling flash and smoke was an unsubtle reminder to Londoners of its other potential employment, like during the evil May Day riots.
Ned was surprised to find at the gate that they had the same guard as his last visit. The fellow was still having a good leisurely scratch of his cods, but this time a quickly levelled halberd stated no easy access. To Rob, after a day of frustrations, that must have been the last straw. Ned hadn’t had the experience of seeing his friend angry. He’d heard a brief report of a prior occasion during the Grafton Chase ambush. Since it had been delivered in the sisterly dismissive tones of Meg Black, Ned had to seriously re-edit for a more realistic version. He himself had missed the scene, being a bit preoccupied at the time due to his panicked efforts in badger hole exploration, to avoid the slashing blade of an irate Spaniard. Now he thought about it, even the pestilent rancour of Cromwell’s debts and the grain difficulties which Rob had been unwittingly dragged into, only made his friend ‘annoyed’.
Well now he had a good opportunity to see it for himself, outside the most heavily protected building in the kingdom. His friend, Rob, was winding himself up into the sort of rage that could see large beams of oak snapped in bare hands and stones shattered at the volume of the roar. To be fair, the guard was doing his best to stand up to the intimidating sight of the over six foot tall artificer who’s twitching clenched hands gave the easy impression that he was in the habit of breaking the necks of oxen as a warm up. It must have been a really bad day for Rob Black to build up to this level of aggression so quickly. Ned supposed that to his friend, the delay at the foundry had implied a slur to his professional capabilities. It was ironic that Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher had chosen the wrong time to sneeringly refuse entry. Then again, thinking was not usually part of the required criteria to stand slovenly at a gate.
It was an impressive and awe inspiring sight, and by the good lord, if Ned was on the receiving end, then cowering behind a good thick gate would have been his first reaction. Anyway the summer’s day was pushing on, and it was already late afternoon. Ned only had seven days to solve this problem, along with his other burdens of duty, let alone the requested snooping into the Queen’s household. So with a certain amount of reluctance to intervene betwixt a predator and his lawful prey, he stepped forward and unfurled his commission before the wide eyed stare of the trembling guard.
Ned doubted the fellow could read, but the impressive seal and signature was enough to penetrate his fear glazed expression and send him stumbling gratefully back through the gate for instructions. A few minutes later an officer of the Tower guard casually waved them in. Ned noted with a grin the complete absence of Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher anywhere in view. Ned reckoned it would have been a safe bet that the fellow was cowering behind a good, thick, stone wall till the suffused features of Rob Black had passed from his bailiwick.
It was a leisurely walk through the various gates to the office of the Master of Ordinance and Rob Black had a chance to regain a measure of calm. Ned considered the sudden wrath of his companion and approached the following question with due care and caution. He didn’t want his friend to explode again before the watching eyes of the Tower bustle. “Has Sir Welkin been more difficult over this problem, than say the King’s prior officer?”
He could see that Rob Black was making a visible effort to quell any further out bursts. His large hands clenched with bone crushing force and his breathing sounded like the great bellows used to power the furnace. Steadily these signs diminished, until only a vein in his forehead twitched in a regular beat to betray his suppressed emotion. “This Master of Ordinance is a grubbing measle, who gouges us at every chance! He’s been a sore trial to my uncle!” It was a short and simple statement and from the tremble in his voice it held back a torrent of piled grievances.
Ned felt that he had better draw out a few stories very cautiously, just to get a feel for the coming interview. “Tell me some of those difficulties.” Ned brought his hands in to compress a small space in a gesture of restraint.
Rob Black’s eyes narrowed in concentration, seeming to review and sort his memories. Like many large, amiable lads engaged in the artificer’s trades, Rob was considered to be a bit slow in the mental dressage that philosophers and university doctors seemed to feel was the only measure of intelligence and ability. Because his friend didn’t perform the intricate tricks and jumps that such thinking required, he was dismissed by the learned as an oaf. However Ned had seen him at work last year. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leap the hurdles and obstacles of philosophy. It was just that he felt that they were irrelevant, so bypassed them to find his answers.
“The first was the commission itself. He claimed that it required a longer perusal since it was signed by his predecessor. That cost Uncle Jonathon a fee of five gold angels.”