Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

One curious little piece in the writ was that the Lord Chancellor wanted to impound the vessel and take it to Greenwich. Ned could think of a number of reasons for removing the ship from the London docks, but even accounting for the presumption of Sir Thomas More in trying to wrench it from its lawful jurisdiction, the act was a slap in the face to Londoners and the Hanse. Not that it mattered-Ned would sink the ship before he’d let it leave!

The armoured windbag eventually ran out of script and stood there glaring at his audience, no doubt waiting for the instant compliance or pathetic grovelling that he strangely expected. More’s pursuivant was in for a surprise.

After a glance at the worried and tight jawed look on Meg Black’s face, Ned felt in a mood for a spot of revenge. “Thank you Sir Roderick for so well informing us as to the request of the Lord Chancellor. I fear, however, it is not possible to comply.”

And so Ned flourished his own writ, beckoning over one of the larger of Gryne’s men to provide more illumination from his lantern. The fact that the scarred guard towered over Sir Roderick by a foot and a half at least was but a mere detail. Despite the proffered light Sir Roderick markedly flinched as Tam approached. Maybe it was the splattering drops that trailed from the mace still hanging from Tam’s wrist or possibly the sight of the cleaver casually thrust in the guard’s belt.

Ned noted the pale features of his visitor and had the blossoming of a wickedly bold idea. “Unfortunately this writ from the Privy Council trumps the Lord Chancellor’s and, as such, has preference.”

So More hadn’t waited. Last night after sending off his complaint to Cromwell, he’d drawn up his own claim. It was a rash and precipitous move, since it was, without a doubt, completely without the knowledge of the King or the Privy Council, and thanks to the delay of his red faced, rotund servant here, it was the best part of twelve hours too late. Sir Roderick however didn’t see the irony of his error and tried to snatch the writ from Ned. It was not a sensible move since the apprentice lawyer simply sidestepped the attempt. As a consequence the heretic hunter stumbled over some of the some of the ship’s coiled ropes and found himself falling flat on the deck with a loud metallic clatter.

That’s when the full stupidity of his bluster may have begun to percolate through his myopic vision. Usually if one is going to intimidate other, it is a distinct advantage to have the large armed men of your retinue within arms reach, all the better to loom menacingly or to intervene if things went awry. This hadn’t been the case when More’s minion had stomped on board. The twenty or so armed and armoured men at his back had stayed on the wharf, and of them only the sergeant could clearly see the antics of their leader. However that was no help to Sir Belsom. At this sight the sergeant shook his head and turned away, more interested in the lights of Southwark across the river. A wicked smile came to Ned’s face. It appeared Sir Roderick had been unable to engender the sort of loyalty from his underlings that encouraged them to take an active interest in his welfare.

So pride and clumsiness had been his downfall. Well substantially it had been-a staff deftly slipped betwixt Sir Roderick’s ankles had proved very useful in bringing low the Pursuivant. Tam Bourke had even positioned the accident beautifully so that his attempted ‘rescue’ looked the part. Instead it was edging the stricken gentleman further over the beckoning chasm of the hold hatch. Ned, of course, bent down to assist the royal official, or so it seemed to the guard sergeant. The fellow still made no move to aid his commander and even in the dim lantern light could be clearly seen to shake his head disapprovingly at such a display of amateur clumsiness. At a guess he’d assumed his master had once more fallen prey to his unaccustomed armour.

Ned took up the opportunity and quickly knelt down next to his visitor, his mouth closer to the scarlet plumed helmet. “Now Sir Roderick, let us come to an amicable agreement, before you have an unfortunate accident. ”

A firm hand on the man’s gorget gave the struggling pursuivant a significant push. The implications of a tumble head first, armour and all, down into the hold were not lost on Sir Roderick Belsom. His pasty face gargled and spluttered in fright.

“Now my writ has prior claim. Please nod for the witnesses.” Ned kept his voice low and conversational as if explaining a simple matter. The pursuivant tried to call out, but a slight dipping had his mind more firmly concentrated on the ominous darkness below. The choking strap of his helmet made conversation very painful but a nodding of the plumed helm was plainly visible.

“Now I’m a generous man, Sir Roderick. I’ll grant you a concession. At the end of my writ I will present myself to your master, as commanded and all success will be accorded to you. However you will leave this vessel and all aboard alone until that writ expires. I have your word as a knight?”

The last frantic nodding could have been the glimmer of rationality or, as Ned suspected, more probably the increased slipping of the Pursuivant’s position.

“Just to be sure we have an understanding, Mistress Black could you get a quill and some ink?” It wasn’t the best signature and parts of the script required close scrutiny to decipher, but considering the angle of suspension and the restrictions of the armour, it was a very credible effort and very, very legal. At the conclusion Sir Roderick Belsom was hauled upright, dusted off and escorted spluttering from the ship. Once on the wharf he stood glaring up at the troop sergeant who just stood stock still and stared straight ahead into the middle distance well above the helm of his commander. From the accomplished sheen of dumb obedience, the fellow must be used to dealing with commanders whose intellect and ability rated poorly in comparison to a parsnip.

Unfortunately for the evening’s entertainment, Sir Roderick held by a finger nail’s breadth to his dignity, and held on to the brimming rage and anger that purpled his complexion. Giving the vessel’s occupants an ominous glare, he straightened his sash and made a brusque jerky wave to set his troop in motion back the way they’d come. Pity, Ned had been looking forward to the expected display of temper. It wasn’t until the sound of the tramp and rattle of iron wear had passed up Billingsgate Street that the visible strain on the vessel eased with men replacing surreptitiously held weapons.

Margaret Black came over with the scrawled concession. She had rounded up from the crew and guards a dozen signatures or marks to give the document its required legitimacy. At least Albrecht was still present. That made it look a little better than a quick whip round in a Southwark stew, which was the usual validation presented at an inquest. He seen a couple of that kind presented in court. Like the one last month that had claimed all the occupants of a tavern were with the accused in the jakes at the time of the quite accidental death of Grumbling Geoff of Pevensy. Thus once more Canting Michael of Southwark was proved to be innocence of the slaying. But then it was a Sussex inquest and Canting Michael knew where each of the gentlemen serving on the panel lived, a fact not ignored in their consideration.

Someone tugged at his sleeve and Ned turned towards the concerned face of Meg Black. “Ned…Ned, are you sure this will help us?”

She still sounded worried. Well that was understandable what with murder, More, the riot and Belsom. Ned put on his most reassuring demeanour, hoping his uncertainty wouldn’t leak through. It was possible that the Lord Chancellor could ignore any agreement or for that matter any of the common practices of the kingdom’s laws. But considering his other duties, it was highly probable he was too busy to inquire too closely.