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.
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.