At the conclusion, Ned had stood his ground and been very emphatic on the allocation of tasks. Rob was to be in charge of the ‘Orange Watch’, as the guard over the Stafford women was dubbed. Meg had once more bristled at his claim of leadership and protested that the post was hers. Ned felt he’d surpassed himself in restraint and decorum by merely mentioning that she was still required to act the merchant’s heiress in this deception. The plain fact was not taken as well as it could have been. Mistress ‘I’ll do what I want’ Black made an attempt to foist her duty on to Emma. This was until Ned, completely without smirking, pointed out that the good alewife was already engaged in another task, as well as assisting Rob.
As a consequence of the still simmering dispute, it took over an hour to organise their departure. To Ned’s disappointment and frustration, Albrecht was left in command of the vessel. There was no choice. Rob had to leave to meet up with Emma over at Milford Lane, where their survival depended on charting the course of the oranges. If Albrecht was indeed implicated, then they had just given him a two or so hour window to hide whatever he wanted. Ned had a very quiet word with Tam Bourke to keep a close eye on the Hanse and make sure he was never alone, but apart from that, all he could do was pray that providence still favoured them.
After all the chaos and angst, the crossing to Southwark went smoothly once they secured three large cargo wherries, far more than they needed but it was necessary to look like they meant to purchase the powder.
According to Gruesome Roger, the sometime powder merchant was in a large warehouse on the waterfront, two buildings west of the stream by Morgan’s Lane. Roger had left one of Gryne’s men at the dock as look out, while he’d spread the rest of the mercenaries around the cluster of buildings. According to Meg’s retainer, Gryne had put twenty more men at their service, easily summoned by a horn blast. Ned sincerely hoped it would be enough.
They strode into the warehouse in all the strutting style of the merchant lords of the city. Meg Black had temporarily put aside their rancorous dispute to once more play the imperious heiress. His daemon wryly remarked that it was a part she did very well. One glance at the proud tilt of her nose and you’d never know she ground her own poultices and mucked out the workroom. There had been a brief but spirited debate over improving her appearance with more jewellery and her very best French hood, but Ned had pushed that aside with the valid claim of lack of time. It had almost earned him that avoided clout from the earlier discussion.
Now as he played second retainer to Gruesome Roger’s lead, Ned was beginning to have a few misgivings regarding the plan. For one thing, the arrangement was up to ‘Hawks’ and while he’d protect his mistress to his last breath, he had scant regard for Ned. The events of the Fleete Ditch bridge and the rescue of the grain vessels had proved that. So they were maybe backed by a dozen of the most fearsome ruffians in Southwark but his daemon whispered that wasn’t enough.
The building was similar to others along the riverside, built on heavy stone footings, probably from another older structure. The different patterns of use had grafted on a brick wall here and split planks on the south side. The interior space was packed with sacks and barrels as well as the occasional pile of wicker baskets. The lighting was poor since the only source was a couple of high windows that allowed a reluctant trickle of the evening light to spill across the jumbled heaps. A lop eared guard had let them in, giving a vague wave towards the rear. Ned was surprised. He would have thought anyone would be leery of allowing several armed men into a warehouse. They weaved between the tottering piles and baskets in single file towards a dim pool of light at the back.
“Master Hawkins!” It was a loud booming welcome and came from a fellow leaning against an ominously creaking stack of woven containers. “Tis good to see you again, and welcome to your esteemed mistress!”
Their host was a large man, well large at least in circumference, if not actually tall. He looked more like a barrel on legs and from his dress, believed in keeping up with the latest fashion. That much silk velvet on one man would see a draper feasted and drunk for a week. He gave an attempt at a courtly bow as Meg approached, though Ned felt any further effort could see the fellow topple over.
Mistress Black gave the slightest nod in response to the greeting, maintaining an arrogant disdain. “You’re Somersby, the victualler, as referred to us by Master Lyttlefield?”
By the saints she was good! The question fair dripped all the embedded affectations of the highest families of London. An automatic reaction had the victualler trying for a deeper bow. To Ned it seemed that if Master Somersby could, he’d even have gone down on his knees to kiss the fringe of her dress. Meg, in turn, withheld the favour of her hand and regarded the victualler as one would a cockroach, which only drove him on to further attempts at obeisance. Ned found that interesting. Meg Black’s disdain never had that effect on him-more like he wanted to spank her insolence.
“Master Lyttlefield said that you would be of assistance with supplies, though I find it doubtful, considering this pile of trash.” At that her fingers gave a dismissive flick towards the shadowed contents of the warehouse before she pinned the merchant with a contemptuous frown. “I hope for your sake he was not mistaken?”
Ned was impressed at her play, an excellent move mixing sneering request with implied threat, though the reaction was not quite what he’d anticipated. Master Somersby the victualler, quivered almost joyfully at the unsubtle menace of Meg Black’s words. Ned dreaded to think how pleased the fellow might be if she’d cuffed him for insolence. Southwark definitely did have some strange inhabitants.
The rotund victualler continued his unabated fawning and replied in a wheedling falsetto. “Mistress Black, on my honour, I have all that you could ever require!”
Ned frowned at the not so shaded tones in Master Somersby reply. He may have been mistaken but it almost sounded like…like an offer?
The victualler gave a wave and two lackeys, lurking in the background, stepped forward and pulled back a canvas sheet revealing a collection of barrels. Even in the limited light Ned could see the impress of the King’s mark along side that of the Tower on the sycamore stave. As Rob had pointed out, each barrel was bound by corded willow withy and hazel hoops rather than metal, to stop the chance of a stray spark. They were of the right size, as well, to hold the statute one hundred pounds. To Ned it looked a good start and about the right number, at least fifty if not a few more. Meg slowly paced along the front row of barrels, giving each a cool regard. Master Somersby shuffled along behind, spouting a blend of grovelling comments about the superlative quality of his goods and his honoured guest.
Mistress Black abruptly stopped and imperiously pointed to one barrel. “Open it!”
Somersby waved his two minions forward again and they wrestled the barrel out from its companions, then cautiously tapped loose the head. Ned was very relieved to see them using wooden hammers and wedges. The last event he wanted to witness was some fool slamming away with metal tools around the dangerous powder. Once broached, Ned cautiously stepped over after removing his sword belt and the two pistols, leaving them with one of their retinue. Rob had been very specific about precautions around powder.
Ned dipped his hand into the open barrel and felt the smooth grains slide past his skin. At the feast the other night, Rob Black had discussed the various attributes of quality powder, how dry it should feel, the smoothness of the grain and the evenness of the size. Well this seemed to pass the test, no signs of moisture or dampness that so frequently spoilt the mixture. He could see that their host was smiling happily as the trial continued. Well that was all to the good. Ned picked out a pinch of powder and put it in his mouth. Yes Rob had been an excellent teacher, definitely the taste of brimstone and saltpetre.