Once more Ned nodded. Any fool who’d walked into a tavern knew that. The massive barrels were arranged behind the tavern keeper’s counter.
“Now, by city and royal statute, that is supposed to be a tontight, and is equal to twenty hundred weight-each hundred weight being one hundred and twelve pounds.”
Now at last this was something simple. Ned understood that part at least. Perhaps like lawyers, merchants just used strange terms to maintain the secrecy of the trade.
Meg Black’s eyes sparkled with just a hint of malice, or was that mischief, before continuing. “That’s not all. A tontight should also be equal to a ton mascull or two pipes of sack wine, or four hogsheads, or six tierce, or two butts, or three tarcyons, or forty pieces of figs, or twenty two kintails or finally, half a measure of Andalusia.”
Ned shook his head in bewilderment at the list, and feeling overwhelmed, tried to change the discussion. According to both his angel and daemon, now was perhaps was not such a good time to become acquainted with the arcane practices of trade.
“So Albrecht handles all these matters?”
This received a simple nod of assent from Mistress Black. The shifting of subjects to somewhere familiar definitely worked. Colour had come back to her cheeks and her eyes shone almost smokey sapphire in the warm yellow light of the lantern. Extremely attractively really.
Ned took a deep breathe. It was time to venture on to more treacherous ground. Trade may have been the background to murder. However he had the feeling he was missing something. Actually his shoulder daemon reminded him that on past evidence, Meg Black rarely gave the exact truth he needed, unless that was, she had no other choice. “Ahh, umm, Albrecht, ahh, didn’t have any disputes or grievances with Joachim, ahh, did he?”
Meg Black’s eyes narrowed and the shadow of wrath threatened a precipitous reappearance. Ned quickly gave his reasons before the consequences of such a question proved personally painful. “Any inquest will ask the same questions. If they’re stubborn or truculent, they’ll even find against him just out of spite.”
At that explanation Meg Black’s potential anger subsided and she shook her head. “No. Any merchant from the Steelyard would give evidence that Albrecht and Joachim were friends and business partners for over ten years. No problems or jealousies.”
Well at least that possibility was out of the way, although Ned could probably come up with several darker motives for a falling out between friends, if he had too. That was the easy part of his questioning. Now he took a deep breath. It was time to delve into the previously unmentioned ‘secrets of trade’.
***
Chapter 9. The Secrets of Trade, The Ruyter, Evening, 6th June
Previously Ned had skirted full knowledge of the dangerously, illicit trade that Meg Black pursued so whole heartedly. However, if he wanted to save Mistress Black and his good self from the Lord Chancellor’s singular attention, he had to become a willing accomplice. The difficulty lay in once he asked, well then there could be no turning back. Their ‘situation’ would have irrevocably changed, acquiring a more serious demeanour. It was not that he could claim ignorance of the penalties, or that he had been dragged in unwittingly. Ned’s more selfish daemon tried to point out that giving Meg to Lord Chancellor More would be a sensible career move, putting him firmly on the path to power and wealth. It was ironic that betrayal was so well rewarded, since to stay true to friends in this kind of situation led to close questioning and ‘religious instruction’ by Racking. Some of the lads at the Inns said that wasn’t so, hinting instead that Sir Thomas More preferred to employ the lash for truculent prisoners. Great, what a choice! Judas’s silver or his arms and legs got stretched!
Ned was almost a gentleman and he did still hold some honour despite how his lord or uncle treated him, so he while his conscience held firm he asked, “What of the illicit smuggling? Who handles that and how is it done?”
Meg Black spent a few moments considering the question. Ned could see that she was giving him a very intense consideration, trying to probe his motives. Examining his fingernails, he made a play at gentlemanly indifference. In truth he didn’t feel overly brave or noble. His shoulder daemon kept on asking him where was the sort of courage exhibited by men like Philips or Father Bilney. He shrugged this off. The subversion and degradation of his soul wasn’t worth the price of his shoulder daemon’s vision of Utopia.
It was fairly reluctant, but slowly in a soft voice and after almost an eternity of hesitation, Margaret Black began her introduction to the secret trade of book smuggling. “The first stage is our agents in Bruges or Antwerp. They source the books from printing houses. Officially the printers have to clear anything they produce with the censors of the Archbishop, but since most is now done in our language, they really couldn’t care. Then we work out the proportion of bound books to loose bundled sheets. The books cost more, but the sheets are easier to hide.”
Ned considered this first step. It seemed easy enough, a simple merchant’s transaction. You could do the same wandering through the printers’ stalls by St Paul’s. However you were extremely unlike to pick up such radical literature. Bishop Stokesley of London kept a very close eye on the few printers and sellers in the city. “So how are they secreted?”
Despite the gravity of the discussion, Mistress Black’s impish grin returned. “That’s the easy part. In each shipment their location is spread throughout the cargo. The loose sheets can be mixed with straw and rag packing in crates or barrels. Sometimes books are hidden in false bottoms in boxes or wrapped and sealed with tar in tuns of wine or in sacks of meal or flour. More commonly they are put in mislabelled barrels and the bills of lading are altered. Usually all vessels have secret compartments where such items are stored. You would have to take the ship apart to find them.”
To Ned it sounded very thorough and he supposed that it must be, considering the large number of heretical books he had seen at the university and the Inns of Court. But there must still be flaws since More and the bishops had still managed to seize and burn a cart load of texts. “That’s the transport of the books. How do they leave the ship?”
At this next question Meg Black pursed her lips and frowned pensively. Ned had suspected this was the area of most risk. “Well, as I said this ship is to sail to Bristol and then Dublin. Before that it has three official ports of call, Southampton, Portsmouth and Plymouth. At each of those towns we have agents who arrange a number of other quiet stops along the south coast at beaches and inlets for unloading cargo.”
Ned had heard of the reputation of the coastline stretching from the Isle of Wight to the wild country of Cornwall. According to the writs he had seen in courts, it was the bane of the Exchequer, Chancery and the King’s Bench, with the locals considering themselves exempt from the laws that governed the paying of taxes and levy’s that held at least nominal sway in the rest of the kingdom. “Alright. Then how do you arrange that?”
“Well we have correspondence with some of those local agents letting them know when to expect a shipment. Others are acquaintances of Albrecht’s or Joachim’s and are contacted at the ports as a part of normal business. A few are port Reeves, so that makes it easier.”
From her report almost every merchant in the realm had to be involved in some form of smuggling. Of course that meant the more involved they were in the trade, the greater risk of betrayal. In these decadent times the path of the informer was laid with silver.
“What if one of your letters or agents is taken, or turned in?” he asked.
“We’re prepared for that.” Meg Black had the most smugly, satisfied grin on her face that he’d yet seen.