Ned took out the much used piece of parchment from his leather script, and once more examined the document. It looked the same as when it was presented. So what was he supposed to read into it, apart from the obvious words. Codes were unlikely. So what else?
It charged him to first examine the Queen’s household, then investigate the matter of the murder of the Hanse and anything connected. For a writ that was extremely broad and irregular, and could in the wrong hands, be utilised for all manner of abuses. His daemon prodded him to examine it afresh. Usually such freedom of action was highly irregular, unless you paid for it. With an effort, Ned pushed his memory back to the start of the week, to the interview with his lord and master, and then cursing, leant closer into the shaft of light.
In the short space of time betwixt Ned’s plea and when the writ was thrust into his eager hands, Cromwell had only penned a few lines. He couldn’t have written it all, and now it was as plain as day. Damn him for an unobservant fool. This could’ve helped unravel the mess earlier! From the style of the lettering, Sir Thomas had already filled out the bulk of the warrant before. All he had done in Ned’s presence was the last codicil regarding the murder and added his signature. The Royal official had already sniffed out a plot and appeared to be a few steps ahead of everyone else.
Ned’s prior association with Cromwell had already taught him the man was all cold cunning and calculation. The normal rules of chivalric honour and usage didn’t apply. As his daemon hinted, it was even possible Cromwell had arranged the foiling of this scheme to gain the good graces of Norfolk. His lord and master had done nothing to protect or deflect Ned from Skelton. Now he considered it, Norfolk’s man did arrive with a providentially large retinue, and had a lot more knowledge of the complex situation than Ned would’ve thought. Damn these decadent times! They were awash with treachery and deceit! His daemon promised that this two handed act of his ‘good lord’ wasn’t going to be forgotten!
One part still had him puzzled. How did Canting Michael fit into this? Who did he serve? After the dramatic conclusion on Lion’s Tower, Tam had half carried him down to the gate, and filled him in on a few of the more bizarre details. It had been Canting’s men who had been fighting Don Juan Sebastian’s monks outside Lion bulwark. They had broken through and surged across the bridge. Their leader waved his own Privy Council warrant before Ben Robinson, and passed into the Tower proper, in the hunt for monks. So Ned’s vision on the rampart hadn’t been his imagination. Canting had popped up too often in this affair for it to be chance. As to the connecting circumstances, Ned would have to sort that out later.
Thinking about convenient circumstances automatically lead him to Mistress Black. Her advanced knowledge and more than excellent timing with events couldn’t be ascribed to the providential hand of God! That two-faced, conniving apothecary’s apprentice knew too damned much! Where, why and how, he promised himself to find out.
Finally Ned came to a decision. He donned the gifted doublet. Then he hung another earlier present around his neck, a silver chain with the badge of Cromwell, and to finish the proclamation of his allegiances, the crested ring inherited from his mother. He didn’t care that More was known to loath his family, or that it could be considered a red rag to a bull. He was mostly proud of being a Rich, even if only a bastard one.
Ned Bedwell was ready for battle.
***
Chapter 36. The Lord Chancellor, Westminster, Morning, 11th June
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?”