Part 1      "And I can't get it out of my head" - Electric Light Orchestra

There was a loud explosion. More awoke with a start. Looking through his bedroom curtain he could see it was only dusk. He had been asleep since this afternoon, having returned the Princess Royal to her doting mother and earning the King's praise. He was still exhausted after his travails but this could be worth exploring. He slipped on his hose, shirt, breeches, shoes and coat and stepped out onto the street, latching the door and returning his key to his purse. It wasn't hard to see the source of the alarums and excursions. Smoke and fire was billowing on the skyline, coming from... could it be? It was. St Paul's Cathedral. Many people were jostling More in the street. Londoners were always on the look out for novel entertainments and hundreds were rushing to gawp. But this crowding, milling mob was met with a mob running from the other direction - in their Sunday best finery but besmirched with soot and ash. One of them, a beadle by the look of him, stopped More. "Where d'you think you're going. And who are you?" "The name is More. Thomas More". He flashed his sheriff's badge. The beadle stepped back with fear in his eyes. As Sheriff of London, More held letters patent which allowed him to execute summary justice on any commoner up to the rank of gentleman without needing to bring the miscreant before a King's magistrate. In short, More had a license to kill. Realizing the man must have come from St Paul's, More put the beadle to the question, "What happened?" "Oh, your worship, it was horrible. It was evensong. The wain came right up to the High Altar. And then, and then, it just..." The man was barely making sense. Perhaps given time he might have done but then the roof fell in. The thrill seekers ooh-ed and ah-ed in a contented, if excited way. The refugees were less gruntled. "The Bishop of London was still in there!" "The choir!" "Saints above," breathed the beadle piously, "that roof was made of lead. The fire must've been hot enough to melt it." And like the cathedral roof, the crowd melted away as soldiers came on the scene to establish bucket chains. Using his badge, More was able to pass through their lines. Soon it would be time to go home to dress more suitably. Wolsey would surely be sending for him. But first More wanted to find a clue or two.

"Well, More, in a way we were blessed. It was just the roof that fell in," declared Thomas, Cardinal Wolsey, the Lord Chancellor and papal legate. He was seated with the other two in a sumptuous audience room in the palace of Hampton Court. "Si," concurred Father Leo, the Inventor Royal, "it was only the flying buttresses which stopped the cathedral falling on its side." Wolsey shook his head, "If that had happened in such a densely built part of the city, the adjoining buildings could have been knocked down like a row of dominoes." The Chancellor looked resolute, "We will rebuild St Paul's, even better than before." "Well, your Grace, tell me who did it, let Father Leo give me my new kit and I'll go out and get them." "Not so fast, More. We are not dealing with our usual villain here." More's ears pricked up. The job was normally so routine. Typically a malefactor would send a wood-cut of their visage with a covering letter demanding a thousand pounds lest a fearsome act of criminal damage be performed. More would travel around England and parts of Northern Europe; escape imprisonment and certain death; swive a brace of comely wenches; and... "Pay attention, More," the cardinal said curtly, "We are facing a crime here of a kind that has been extinct for almost three centuries." "Your grace?" "There isn't even a word for it in English. I suppose you could call it 'terrorizing'. "I'm still not sure I'm following, your grace." "It's a difficult concept, More," Wolsey gave a tight-lipped smile. "Imagine you have a grievance. If you are a prince and your suit is against another prince, you would engage in a just war. If you are a subject and a fellow subject aggrieves you, you would take your case to the King's bench. But what if neither of these avenues is open to you?" "Then I should punch my adversary on the nose," said More stoutly. "Capital fellow, I'm sure you would. But your blow will be more than one to the nose if you are many and your adversaries likewise." The cardinal went didactic, "In Holy Scripture our Lord took twelve apostles, as well you know. Three of them, theologians believe, were Zealots, the terrorizers of the day. They took up arms against the Romans because they felt their own king, King Herod, was doing too little to protect their religion." "Surely our Lord would only have taken them as apostles if He was sure they were penitent terrorizers." "Indubitably. Since then, the last notable terrorizers were the disciples of the Old Man of the Mountains, the so-called assassins," Wolsey sighed, "Hashish and heathenism are a powerful combination. The assassins killed without regard for their own lives." "So you suspect the Turk, your grace?" asked More as his eyes followed a comely nun, one of the Lord Chancellor's household, around the room. "No I do not. Now pay attention, More! The Sultan in Constantinople is as powerful as any prince in Europe. He may be outside Christendom but he is as high and mickle as any within. If he has a grudge his armies will march to war, you can be most certain of that. No, terrorizers come from the ranks of the whipped, the despised, the outcast. I refer, in brief, to Lutherans." More was surprised that a prince of the church would speak so highly and objectively of the Turk. But even more surprised at the mention of Lutherans. "Wasn't the heresiarch burned at Worms a few years ago." "Yes, foolish was the wretch not to know of the love the Emperor Charles has for Mother Church." More managed to keep a straight face. Charles V had only just sacked Rome. But that was politics, not religion. Wolsey continued, "Luther is dead but his followers are still alive. Fanatics, they believe that if any man reads the scriptures he can know the mind of God, without trained, knowledgeable mediation. Worse still, they have translated the Holy Bible into common German, so that the lowliest peasant can make his own doctrine for himself. And they hate Charles, their lawful prince. Charles is a good man, he arrests them and gives them a chance to abjure their heresy and do penance. If the refuse or relapse they are burnt; what else can you do? They resist his fatherly ministrations and because they have none to whom they can plead their case, they lash out in violence. The violence is worst in Johann the Wise's principality of Saxony." Father Leo took over, "And now it seems the violence has come to merry old England, no? If you could just walk this way, Senor More." The pair descended the steps into Father Leo's dungeon laboratory. "Watch closely, Senor More. This looks like an ordinary walking stick. But if you twist this," the Inventor Royal unscrewed the bamboo for the best part of half a minute, "there is a rapier." The blade looked dull to More's expert eye. Sensing he was losing his audience, Father Leo began unscrewing the other end of the stick. "A secret compartment in the handle. It contains sweetmeats," the inventor removed a small orange pellet and tossed it expertly into his mouth, "Dried apricot! But you could put anything in there." More yawned, "Do you have anything else, Father Leo?" Father Leo's eyes suddenly developed a manic gleam, "Can I get you to try my flying machine again?" The sheriff stepped back quickly, "No, the walking stick will be lovely." He ran up the stairs two at a time with the older man in hot pursuit. Cardinal Wolsey was waiting as the two emerged. "You've returned. Capital. Father Leo, if you would be so good as to fetch Brother Felix. More, come this way." He walked open to a map table, pulled a draw out and pointed to a parchment chart of Europe. "We estimate the number of Lutheran able-bodied men at 400." "Four hundred, your grace? Isn't that a job for an army?" "An army must be equipped, fed and led to battle where the enemy is. We do not know where the enemy is. They could be in Saxony," the Cardinal pointed on the map, "or Brandenburg. There have even been sightings of Lutherans in Scandinavia. We need to find where they are. But don't worry, you won't be going alone." This was a new development, "I won't?" asked More. "No, Thomas, I'm sorry." The cardinal looked genuinely troubled, a rare and worrying sign. "A massacre of the King's subjects is a matter for the Lord Chancellor. But the destruction of the greatest cathedral in the land, after York Minster, is a blow against Christians everywhere. His holiness in Rome will take a personal interest, and wearing my hat as papal legate I must insist that the Church must be represented, too." By now Father Leo had reentered the room with a younger monk, about More's age. The newcomer was wearing the black robe of a Dominican friar. Wolsey made the introductions, "Thomas More, Sherrif of London, please meet Brother Felix, who has conducted so many successful inquiries in Spain." "Senor," said the monk. "Charmed, I'm sure," More replied, before directing a what-have-you-done look at the cardinal. "He's from Barcelona," Wolsey said cheerily, by way of information. "Now be along, the pair of you." As they departed the Lord Chancellor silently and slowly counted to three. "And More..." "Yes, your grace?" "Do try not to blow everyone up this time." It was so unfair. "How was I to know Lord Percy had been stockpiling all that smuggled gunpowder in his crypts?" "Be that as maybe, More. But just once, it would be nice for you to bring back a villain that we can hang, draw and quarter. Now be off with you." [To be continued]