Ned gave a considering, slit eyed inspection of the two girls seated at the stern and rubbed his sore hands thoughtfully. Well that could be a possibility. He grinned with malicious mirth and wiped a sweaty brow. About time that pair of plumed, chattering birds came in useful and somehow, after this morning, it seemed terribly ironic.
Ned had selected a position to the rear of the procession. In this case the condition of his clothes fitted the part. All he had to do was put on a more pronounced swagger, with his left hand prominently placed on his sword, tilting it out at a rakish angle. Gruesome Roger was in the vanguard. His size, forbidding presence and grimace made him a natural for the job. As per custom, the two girls strode imperiously behind him, spiced orange pomanders held close to faces set in arrogant disdain, dressed in the finest scarlet cloth, edged in dark velvet braid and hair done up in pearl studded French hoods made popular by Lady Anne. To Ned, it was a sight fit even for his Majesty’s Court. As they paced along he’d the best view of those magnificently arrogant stiff shoulders trailing skirts, and as his daemon noted with speculative interest, swaying buttocks. As for their trailing, raffish retainers, Rob and he made an excellent tail, strutting and grimy.
Roger grabbed the first mill worker he came across and hauled the fellow up from the pile of stinking manure he was raking. “Find me the governor o’ this dung heap an’ tell him ta prepare fo’ m’ Mistresses!”
It was in the sort of snarled command and twisted grip that gave an instant response. The poor peasant gibbered in fright before hobbling at his best speed towards a small two level, stone manor house set just back from the mill site. Excellent start thought Ned. News of their arrival would reach the administrator well before the tottering legs of their messenger.
It worked. A worried looking man received them in the spartan luxury of the manor house. In between his constant bobbing and repeated apologies for the inadequate reception, poor wine and lack of suitable comforts, it was discovered that he went by the name of Samuel Lyttlefield. Ned didn’t know whether it was a natural trait or a nervous habit from working in so close proximity to the most dangerous substance in the land, but their host was always distractedly smoothing down the tufts of grey hair that fringed the protruding dome of his head. That’s, when he actually was sitting for longer than a minute. His conversation was frequently interspersed with rapid strides to the window where he would peer anxiously over towards the operations of the mill.
“Master Lyttlefield!” That was very good, with the accustomed snap of command in the tone. Meg must have been taking lessons from one or two of Master Goldsmiths’ wives from the grain syndicate. She had the snarl of arrogance down pat. Once more the governor of the mill scurried back to his seat to attend to his distinguished visitors. His daemon noted with approval that boldness always paid.
“Please mistresses, forgive my inattention. We’re at a very delicate stage of the process. The slightest error and all our work will be gone!”
“Really, then we must inspect it at once!” That combination of a command and statement had the most unfortunate effect on Master Lyttlefield. His eyes went wide and his hands flapped before him like a demented windmill.
“No! No! Mistress Black it would be far too dangerous!” The fellow bobbed up and down in visible distress. The reaction to that was perhaps not all Master Lyttlefield wanted. The two girls, or rather heiress investors in the Company of Merchant Adventurers, put their heads together and whispered intently much to the further consternation of Master Lyttlefield. Ned could tell the fellow was unused to dealing with the powerful women of the city’s merchant families, but no doubt he’d heard of their formidable reputation. Who hadn’t? That explained the fawning treatment. Meg beckoned over Gruesome Roger who knelt and muttered a few words before being dismissed with an abrupt wave.
On the way to the house Rob give a very brief run down on the operations here. The long raised mounds of stinking manure were the breeding ground for the white crystals of saltpetre, while the carefully watched smoking mounds that lined the opposite riverbank produced the willow charcoal. The sulphur, the last ingredient, was shipped in from the Low Countries and Spain. Then, according to the brothers Hubrecht and Henryk, all these compounds were harmless until united in a secret proportion. That was the perilous part, when the dried bread cakes of the black powder were ground down and broken under the weight of the slow revolving mill stone which could be seen a few furlongs to the west being powered by a pair of oxen as they trod the worn circular path. Ned did recall the warning of the Doutch artificers. It was very graphic. At this stage one spark from the scrape of steel or metal on the ground powder, and it would instantly erupt, unleashing its destructive power, levelling buildings and slaying all within the conflagration. Perhaps Master Lyttlefield had fair cause to be nervous.
Ned watched with suppressed amusement as Meg Black gave one of her disapproving scowls over the barrier of the cloved orange and addressed the mill governor. “Well Sirrah, perhaps we will forgo that after all.”
The grudging concession was greeted with all the acclaim of a benediction from on high by a penitent. Master Lyttlefield rattled out a string of thanks and praises.
“As I mentioned before, you have been recommended to our service by John Rastell and Sir Thomas.”
Oh that was very clever. Rastell was the brother-in-law of the Lord Chancellor and a gentleman known to be connected with the Merchant Adventurers. He was still talked about for his ill fated attempt to settle the New World. Apparently his crew preferred piracy and set him ashore in Ireland. Ned also noted the slight of hand with the names. She didn’t actually give a last name after the ‘Thomas’. That was just implied. No matter, the mere suggestion of such impeccable connections stilled the nervous twitching of their host, and if anything, his grovelling obeisance increased. “Thank you mistress. It is an honour to be of service. How may I assist you?”
“Our company is launching a trade flotilla before the end of the month and it requires sufficient powder for ‘protection’.”
This was received with polite and very attentive interest. The defensive needs of trade, with its ready money, was always preferable to tardy government payment. “Of what grade and quantity, Mistress Black?”
The lady in question frowned then and waved Rob forward. It had been unanimously decided he was to be the master artificer. He pulled a folded parchment from his doublet and read off a list. “Enough coarse meal powder for ten demi-culervin, thirty sakers and a hundred of falconets and robinets, as well as fine serpentine powder for three hundred of harquebus. So at my estimate that would be one gross of large barrels of the coarse, and a dozen barrels of the serpentine, all water tight and proofed, as well as a thousand yard of slow match.”
It was indeed an impressive list, sufficient to arm a squadron for a serious ‘trading’ expedition-one that may be expecting to meet fellow traders on the open sea, whom it was anticipated would be reluctant to bargain, so that the armed edge of ‘mercantile’ leverage would be required to clinch a deal. The quantity had been suggested by Rob as an adequate amount to whet interest, if not overwhelm it in the prospective flood of gold.
At the request their host flattened his few grey tufts in growing anxiety. “That…uhm, that’s a substantial request. I…I am not sure it’s possible.”
He finished very weakly and visibly cowered as Meg’s haughty frown deepened and her tone dropped to one of displeased menace. In fact he shouldn’t have been able to meet any request at all, since this was supposed to be the King’s powder to the last grain. But the fellow had costs; carts, boats, manure rakers, barrel makers, charcoal burners, import duties and licences for sulphur, wear and usage on the oxen and of course, bribes for the surveyors of the Privy Council. When taken together it must all rack up to a substantial amount. As for payment from the Royal purse, well Ned had heard of one petitioner who had waited ten years for recompense from the King’s French wars. So anything to lighten the burden was eagerly grasped at.