Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

It was then that he received his second shock of the night. He could hear the tramp of many feet and the clash of iron echoing in the sudden silence. At a guess it was coming from Thames Street leading to Byllynsgate. Maybe it was the Common Watch. Well better late than never. He’d thank them anyway for the attempt. Ned gave a brief wave to Tam Bourke, who quickly replaced the gangway to the dock. Ned pulled himself up and waited. This late rescue was fairly typical of the Watch-they were well known for their ability to turn up well after the problem was solved. No doubt they would still expect recompense for their tardy presence, something like a twenty shillings reward. He hoped that Mistress Black was taking note of all these extra expenses incurred on her behalf.

With a pair of lanterns at their head, the column marched on to the dock. In the flickering light Ned could see a lot more armour than he’d expect in the Watch. Maybe one of the under sheriffs had rallied the nearest of the city’s guild or ward muster companies. Well they certainly had been well drilled and from what he could see, the quality of the equipment was pretty good. Even in the limited light Ned was able to pick out that the men marching onto the wharf wore what was called Almain Rivet, stylish armour preferred for the liveries of important lords of court. A glance over towards his friend saw Rob Black perk up with interest as the butts of shouldered pole arms thudded into the timber planks of the wharf in a close approximation of synchronicity. Ned stepped forward, a relieved grin on his face and…

…the thankful welcome died, strangled in his throat by shock. It wasn’t the city muster, or the Common Watch or even the Mayor’s ceremonial guard. It was in fact the return of Sir Roderick Belsom, Pursuivant of the Lord Chancellor, complete with his master’s retinue, in all its proclaimed power and suggested menace. The guard stood at rest while their commander, Sir Roderick, waddled up the replaced gangplank. He’d taken some greater care with his appearance since their prior meeting. To increase his stature and gravitas, he’d decided that an expedition further into the realm of martial glory was required. Whereas some armour lent a marital dignity to the wearer, Sir Roderick seemed to believe that therefore a lot of armour made one the equal to Sir Lancelot. Obviously the scarlet plumed helmet wasn’t enough. His ‘new’ harness was of the latest style of burnished half armour that Rob reckoned was becoming popular with the professional soldiers across the Channel. It was claimed that it gave protection from shot or blade and when fitted to the man that it was as manoeuvrable as a second skin. Ned remembered seeing one of the King’s great tournaments a few years ago at Greenwich. It had been a spectacular affair and the royal harness was the best that could be made in all of Christendom. Riding like one of the fabled centaurs, the armour mimicked his Majesty’s every move. It was so supple it was said the King could have danced a galliard in it.

As for Sir Belsom, comparison with his Sovereign’s splendour could only to be expected in the All Fools Day romps. The fellow had sort of acquired a tentative grasp of the thing. After all he was wearing the armour, but with all the grace and style of a jackass in bishop’s robes. In fact, as the Lord Chancellor’s Pursuivant precariously strutted up the gang plank, a bout of suppressed laughter broke out from Gryne’s men, until there before them, puffing with exertion, stood Sir Roderick Belsom decked out in the full panoply and awe of five foot of violet sashed, iron clad and scarlet plumed authority. It really was a pity it looked more like a cockerel trying to escape from a kitchen pot or indeed perhaps that same cockerel wearing the kitchen pot. Ned had to clamp his mouth shut with a hand as More’s pursuivant pulled out his writ with a masterly flourish.

As Rob Black had said before, armour should fit, to be suitable for battle and Ned, under the hard tutelage of Master Sylver, had started donning some a few months ago as his trainer had put him through a gruelling series of challenges. It was quite an effort and required skill, practice and most of all, lots of adjustment of the various belts, straps et cetera, so that you didn’t trip over your own feet. It was becoming evident that in his martial training Sir Roderick had lacked a practical instructor. In fact, if Ned had to sketch an immediate past for his visitor, it would more likely follow this path.

In Ned’s vision, Sir Roderick had strutted into one of the flashier shops by the Armourers Guild Hall at Moorgate, and pointed out the gaudiest suit with the most embellishments and gilt. And demanded that it should be ready for him by the end of the week-or else. Well you couldn’t fault their efforts. According to Rob, London boasted some very fine armourers, even a few from the German lands. They couldn’t help it if the customer had a vastly distorted view of his well…‘presentation’. The limitations of this human body had foiled their endeavours. Here in the real world, the dramatic theatre of Belsom’s entrance was fast waning as he struggled with his armour. The growing chorus of poorly suppressed sniggers from the ship and the open ribaldry from the audience still lingering at the dock sapped his authority with every chuckle.

Ned let it go on for a while longer until the ship’s company were rolling on the deck gasping for breath between hoots of mirth. True, it was better entertainment than the inmates at Bedlam, but for all that, by the blessed saints the man was a King’s officer, even if he was a buffoon. Ned stepped across to the struggling, entangled knight and deftly pulled the writ out of his purse. Some unskilled artificer had attached the purse to the sword hanger, no doubt as per instructions. The worked cordovan satchel set off the scabbards embossing perfectly. But the problem was that in his suit of half armour, Sir Roderick couldn’t reach his purse or sword. When he tried, his vanbrace and elbow couter became entangled in his violet silk sash, and then the more he struggled and twisted, the more caught up he became. Ned reckoned his old parish priest would have loved this as a homily on ‘The Price of Vanity.’

After some expensive indignity to his sash, Sir Roderick was free and then snatched the document from Ned’s hand with a snarl. “Unhand me sirrah or I’ll have m’men whip you!”

The least hint of humour vanished from Ned face. So if that was how the fool wanted to play the game then so be it.

With an attempt to repolish his tarnished reputation, Sir Belsom thrust the open document in Ned’s face. As expected it had the seal of the Lord Chancellor. Well he wouldn’t be here without it. A pity he didn’t turn up earlier-it would have been very amusing to see him wave it at the mob. “By order of the Lord Chancellor of the Realm, you are commanded to yield this vessel and all persons, matters and materials whatsoever associated with it unto my charge…”

And so it continued. Ned switched off the meaningless drone and listened instead for the silences. One of his tutors from the university had inducted him into that very useful trick. It wasn’t hard once you knew it. Concentrate on the speech, watching for the words that should be there and for the ones used to hide their absence.

This writ was definitely pure More. It had that blend of arrogance and superiority that only those who felt themselves far above the commons could spout. For one thing, he had claimed the King’s writ. Ned doubted whether His Majesty had any knowledge of this matter at all. He knew that Cromwell wouldn’t fall into the same error. His lord would nary breathe a word until a successful conclusion was ensured, and just in case, there was that interesting escape clause in the writ given to Ned. But no, it seemed that Sir Thomas More had learnt nothing from the fall of his predecessor. Right now the premier servant of the King was preoccupied hunting down minor heretics. To Ned’s current thinking that was a risky pastime, considering the unsettled mood in the city, and that within a few days the place would be packed with lords, bishops and all manner of gentry to sign the King’s petition to the Pope. There was something definitely strange in Lord Chancellor More’s arrangement of priorities.