Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

Ned Bedwell was ready for battle.

***

The Lord Chancellor of England, Sir Thomas More, had a formidable reputation. He’d been high in the King’s service since the Evil May Day riots in 1517, and in that time had served in many capacities-as a legal advisor, authority on religious matters, renowned writer and friend of thinkers, ambassador and long time member of the Privy Council. It had even been rumoured at the Inns of Court that he was the author of His Majesty’s great work condemning the heresies of Luther, though that last suggestion was only whispered. His Majesty took great pride in his appellation by the Pope of ‘Defender of the Faith’.

Sir Thomas was a man entering his fifth decade, and his dark brown hair now displayed faint streaks of white that gave him the air of experienced maturity. Despite his slightly less than middle height, the Lord Chancellor projected an aura of command and wisdom. It may have been the flecked grey eyes that radiated both fierce intellect and firm dedication, or perhaps it his well known reputation as a merciless foe of any who questioned the Church or his judgments.

It didn’t matter which. Ned Bedwell felt distinctly nervous as he bowed before the man second in place in the Kingdom after the King’s Majesty. His only consolation was that, in this, he was not alone. Both the Black siblings were a pace behind him, flanked by a clearly injured Master Robinson and a grinning Skelton. Ned only hoped that each had a fine appreciation of their parts in this performance, and in the case of Margaret Black, that was a desperate prayer. Just how far would gratitude outweigh the chance of revenge.

The waiting had been stretching his nerves to the edge of snapping, and conversation with his company had only been possible in low voiced whispers to avoid the wide ears of the ushers. The delay, they were informed, was due to the Lord Chancellor hearing morning Mass. How very nice and Christian of him! Ned wondered what sort of service took three hours. Perhaps they could have attended one as well, rather than cooling their heels at the door of his audience chamber at Westminster.

Finally Sir Thomas More fixed Ned with his intense gaze, and the apprentice lawyer suppressed the urge to swallow. He was well aware of how delicate their situation was. While much improved on yesterday, the odds were still evenly balanced. If this were a fight in the baiting pit, Ned wouldn’t be that keen to place silver on his chances.

The Lord Chancellor finished his frowning survey of the company and of the letter in his hand before passing it to an usher. “Master Bedwell, I have been informed by my fellow councillor, Thomas Cromwell, that you can explain the circumstance of the affray last night,and of the matters concerning the seizure of the Ruyter of Bremen.”

It was a well modulated voice, practiced in speaking from years in the Law Courts, and it filled the audience chamber, not in anyway loudly or brash, but with the accustomed echo of command and expected obedience. Ned straightened up and he noted the flicker of attention to his chain. No doubt the Lord Chancellor had already taken account of Norfolk’s emblem, as well as the attendance of Skelton, and he could have no uncertainty as to Meg Black’s allegiance. The blazon of the Boleyn’s was affixed to her hooded French cap. As he had found at court, it was not always what you said, but what you wore as you said it.

“I can my lord.”

“Perhaps you could start with the whereabouts of my pursuivant, Sir Roderick Belsom?”

There was, perhaps, a touch of asperity in that command that raised Ned’s hope. It was possible that More hadn’t heard any more than rumour of last night’s debacle. The Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian, could have filled him in with a more accurate version, but his whereabouts were currently unknown.

Ned adopted a very sorrowful expression. “My lord, it is my very sad duty to report that Sir Roderick fell in defence of His Majesties Realm. He is a man much missed, and this investigation would have been lost without his direction.” From Ned’s mournful face you would have thought that his dearest friend had died.

The Lord Chancellor pursed his lips in concern. This did not appear to be welcome news. “How did this sorry event transpire, Master Bedwell?”

This was it, all or nothing. Ned eased out a breath and began a highly edited explanation. “As you are aware my lord, Sir Roderick had been charged with investigating the murders on board the Ruyter of Bremen, while I had been given the same task by Privy Councillor Cromwell. As we were both servants of His Majesty, we decided to combine our efforts.”

If Ned read the Lord Chancellor correctly, the crinkling of an eyebrow indicated that this did not fit in with established practice, or his prior knowledge of the facts. “My lord, I have a signed warrant from Sir Roderick, signed before witnesses, setting this forth.”

Ned presented the document for the Lord Chancellor’s perusal. He could tell that the Pursuivant had failed to mention its existence to his master, who read through it thoroughly, obviously looking for loopholes. Perhaps Sir Roderick should have been more honest in his reports to his master.

“It is his mark.” This was a reluctant acknowledgement, but Sir Thomas had to concede the point.

“My lord, we tracked the heinous slaying back to two men who worked at the Tower, where Sir Roderick had also discovered these miscreants were also involved in some foreign plot with a Hanse merchant regarding His Majesty’s Gonne powder stores.”

Now this did get a response. Sir Thomas gave a nod of limited acceptance, but Ned could tell he had all the Lord Chancellor’s attention now.

“Together with Sir Welkin Blackford, Master of the King’s Ordinance, we set a trap for the conspirators last night.”

That also gained a further nod. Sir Thomas More wasn’t giving anything away it seemed.

“From what we can ascertain, the two powder sorters, Watkins and Edwards, gave access to a party of foreigners to explode the Tower magazine.” Ned was watching carefully. The Lord Chancellor refused to take the bait.

“In the affray, Sir Welkin and Sir Frederick seized the traitors, who in despair of their capture threw a lantern into an open barrel of Gonne powder, slaying many.” Ned bowed his head and made the sign of the cross.

The Lord Chancellor frowned at the retelling. It was plain he found the tale difficult to accept. “Can Sir Welkin verify this record of events?”

Ned was about to speak, but Master Robinson hobbled into view, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. “My Lord Chancellor, I fear not. He was also slain in the explosion. I am Sir Welkin’s clerk, my lord. He set me to investigate irregularities with the Gonne powder records, and in that capacity I was seized and held prisoner by the two traitors. In my hearing they openly gloated about their evil deeds, both the murders and the attempted treachery.”

That sounded so much a better statement than the frank admission that Sir Welkin was shot trying to escape during the Lion Tower assault.

As a court room lawyer, Sir Thomas was excellent. Not a wince or twitch at this very reworked, but impossible to disprove, version of events.

“Did these miscreants ever mention who they were in league with?” A question of some concern to the Lord Chancellor, as it would be to any Royal official such as Blackford or Belsom.

Master Robinson, having been in the King’s service for some years, was unlikely to fall for that trap. “I fear not, my lord. They made reference to foreign gold and obliging friends across the waters, but mentioned no names other than the Hanse merchant.”