Meg Black dropped the cover of her spiced orange pomander and positively glowered at the powder mill governor. Ned tried not to smile in amusement at the fellow’s quivering reaction. “Sirrah! I was assured that you would be able help. My intelligence is that you have over two hundred barrels ready in your stores!”
That had been an estimate from Rob via the Gonne artificers on what should be ready to ship each month and then some. It didn’t pay to keep expensive and chancy powder sitting around. The panic and distress of Master Lyttlefield was truly a sight to witness-so much potential money and patronage at risk. Emma pulled on Meg’s sleeve, distracting her from the next bout of intimidation and once more they went into whispered consultation with much nodding of heads and pursing of lips.
Finally Meg imperiously waved over Roger for a brief whisper and then marched up to the cowering Master Lyttlefield and unveiled the slightest of smiles. “I will concede that a purchase price of one hundred and ten pounds per barrel would be acceptable. However we must have them by the first tide next week!”
The governor of the powder mill had to visibly restrain himself or else his poor fringe of hair would be plucked clean. “Mistress…please. I cannot! On my life, all two hundred and fifty barrels are paid, sealed and bonded to the King’s service. They have to be signed for at the Tower within three days. It is impossible to replace them in so short a time. To release even one would have Sir Welkin gaol me for treason!”
Now that was interesting, thought Ned. More so was the wail of despairing greed as the governor watched his almost two thousand pounds stand up and make to leave. As a last attempt to capture the departing fortune, he fell upon his knees and clutched the hem of Meg’s dress. Gruesome Roger of course did what he does best and loomed over the poor distraught mill governor, making the sort of menacing growl that turned the stomach to water.
“I beg…I beg you mistress. Have pity on a poor man. It is a difficult situation.” Then came the final gamble just as they reached the door. “I can find fifty barrels!”
Meg paused, foot hovering over the step. “What price?” Meg’s casual reply held just enough of inquisitiveness to give hope.
“One hundred and fifteen pounds a barrel…Mistress?”
Even Ned could hear the battle between greed and hope in that answer. Meg gave a small, half turn and inclined her head, snapping out her final offer. “One hundred and twelve, Sirrah! At that, it must be available this week, if not within two days and I warn you Master Lyttlefield, if you are playing me false, my partners and friends do not forget insults!”
With that Meg casually detached a hefty purse from her belt and dropped it on the floor next to the quivering governor. Ned winced at the gesture. Forty shillings were in that purse, over five golden angels worth, gone. His better angel tried to console him with whispers of duty and friendship, but it was still five angels! In the meantime he tried to figure out how to account this as an expense to Rob’s uncle. He also prayed that the way costs were mounting this week would slow down, or else it would soon surpass the value of the illicit cargo, or the demi cannons. At the gesture, Meg and Emma continued their haughty progress out of the manor, leaving Roger as their factor to settle the details of the unofficial trade.
Meg’s retainer caught them up by the time they boarded the barge. He had a very savage grin plastered all over his face that boded very well for their ploy. However the restful charade was over, and with a sorrowful groan, Ned returned to his old companion the long timber oar. He was really going to regret this day now they had to make London before the None chimes.
***
Chapter 14. Aldgate, Plots and Peril, The Bee Skep Tavern, Evening, 7th June
Ned stretched, suppressing the whimper that naturally tried to escape. So much rowing in one day. All he’d wanted was a pleasant cruise up the river, to idly shelter under the spreading boughs of a willow and sup on dainty delicacies while listening to the sweet song of the robin. Well not really, sneered his shoulder daemon, but neither did he expect to labour so hard over the oar. The trip back had been at the best pace possible for a dozen weary men. Even so they still passed all the other boats and barges travelling towards the city. When they’d finally drawn up, exhausted at Steelyards wharf, at the ringing of the None bells, Ned knew he had to summon a final spurt of energy for the next stage.
It had actually been a very short argument, not really up to the expected standard of Mistress Black and Ned felt somehow cheated, as is if he’d been covey-catched like a farmer fresh in from the country, snared with the shell game. He took another savouring slurp of his tankard of fine Bee Skep double ale. Ahh, better in him and here, than at Richmond! The Bee Skep tavern at Aldgate was clear across the city from the Steelyards and as his better angel soothingly reminded him, Mistress Emma couldn’t be blamed for the machinations of her cousin. Though his wicked daemon did try and float the suspicion that Meg Black had planned to come here all the while.
However it transpired he was still looking forward to the roasted haunch of venison that Emma promised as a reward for the labour, and being ensconced in a private room at the second floor of the Bee Skep was safer than many places in the city that sprang to mind. This was the first time he’d been up here and it was a real eye opener, a large well appointed room with walls painted depicting a hunting scene. As for the furniture, she had more than in the sparse manor of Master Lyttlefield. Three carved and pierced cabinets were set around the room along with a serving board displaying the pewter plate and silver gilt candlesticks. Tavern keeper and alewife Emma had as much on show as the average goldsmith. She must have some very respectable and well paying clients. The tavern was sited close to the northern fringe of artisan trades and workshops. It was probably used to host fraternity and association meetings for the fletchers or armourers, although considering her friendship and familial connection with Mistress Black, there were other more heretical possibilities. After all even non conformists had to meet somewhere.
Ned put all niggling thoughts aside and tapped on the table. It was a very relaxed gathering that, at Meg Black’s insistence, included their hostess, Mistress Emma Shepherd who radiated good humour and a flashing smile while she chatting animatedly with Rob. Ned in the meantime was trying to figure out a way to corner the tavern mistress for a quiet talk of his own. No doubt since she visited the palace regularly she was bound to have heard all sorts of interesting gossip. It had nothing at all to do with her pleasing aspect or those sparkling eyes, or so he assured his angel who at the moment he pictured as looking primly unimpressed. However…
His daemon quietly reminded him of Emma’s very close consorting with the ever vengeful and cunning Mistress Black. That association instantly troubled Ned’s tranquillity along with his prior nagging suspicion. Ned had the distinct impression that somehow he was about to be outfoxed again. In vain hope, he gave Mistress Black a very inquisitive stare which she ignored. As his daemon said, she’d pull her jape when she was good and ready, no doubt at whichever moment was deemed the most embarrassing for him.
The small assembly stilled and Ned found himself the sudden focus of attention. Nervously he cleared his throat and started what he thought of as the official part. It wasn’t strictly necessary and he suspected that it may even have sounded pompous. However he felt it lent a more serious and respectable tone to their meetings, and anyway it gave him an excuse to play with some of his training. “I call the Company of the Cardinal’s Angels to order! First the Company extends a grateful welcome and bountiful thanks to Mistress Emma, our hostess.”