Part 3      "Then I saw her face,       Now I'm a believer!" - I'm a Believer , performed by Smashmouth

More paid the groom thruppence to dispose of the remains of Basil the donkey and an extra thruppence to 'do it with all dignity'. Bowing and scraping the stable hand promised to do just this, looking as if all his Michaelmasses had come at once. Recovered, Brother Felix looked at More. "Those responsible for this knew of us and our errand. The name of Thomas More must be well known." "I'm known in London, to be sure," said More, "but in Cambridge?" "Word of you must have spread wide amongst the terrorizers. For your own sake you must adopt a travelling name. Something common, so as not to draw attention to you." "But Thomas is the single most common name in England today. There's Thomas, Cardinal Wolsey; Thomas Cromwell, that nice young Father Thomas Cranmer..." Felix interrupted the sheriff before he could go through the entire London street directory, "How about 'Roger'? That is the name I have heard uttered the most since I've come to London." More rolled the name around on his tongue. "Roger. Rog-er. Yes, that seems to fit me." He assumed a more serious air. "Our task is urgent and we may have little time. I must go to Wishart's to find out about dyes and the identity of our true carter. I need you to discover which printers in this town can print in Gothic typeface and which one of those is responsible for this pamphlet." More passed the monk 'Wagonen für Dumkopfen'. "But I would not have you go unarmed. Here, take my sword!" "Amigo... Roger, I would not leave you without a weapon. I have my own," the Spaniard held up a short, knotted cord, "Tomás!" More smiled, "You named your garrote after me?" "No! After Tomás de Torquemada[1], the greatest of our order." "A garrote is no use against a forewarned and forearmed man. Here, take my sword. No! I insist. I am not defenseless." So saying More took his walking stick and in a single, quick movement drew the rapier blade. "Very well, amigo Roger, if it will please you." Felix had clearly just won a battle against his better judgment. "But those who live by the sword shall die by the sword." The monk took the sword gingerly in his hand, having no scabbard and recognizing that a bare blade at his belt would simply get caught in his cassock. "I shall visit the chapter house of my order in this town to ascertain likely printers. I shall meet you back at this inn at nightfall, God willing."

More soon found the address of Wishart's. He was glad for a respite from Brother Felix's company. He had started to feel the Spaniard was cramping his normal style. The smell from Wishart's hit the nose well before the building came into site. Even the town tannery was upwind of the dye-maker's. The men working there seemed, strangely, to be Scots. "Who's in charge here?" demanded More. "Och aye, ye'll be wantin' to see her ladyship," said one agčd retainer in a passable imitation of English, "she's nay here the noo." The wizened one gave More an address on the same street as the Leper's Arms, where More and Felix were staying. "Do you mind if I look around first?" asked More and strode inside without awaiting permission. The sheriff saw the stills making the spirits. Dyes were extracted from raw materials by slow, careful simmering in the alcohol. "Shaken, not stirred!" came a command from an overseer in a thick brogue. Great care was taken that fumes from this process were not ignited. Then the dyes were, in most cases, well watered before being placed in barrels. But some dyes were not diluted before barreling. This reduced transport costs but "ye must tak' great care when shipping." Ye must indeed, thought More. It was time to track down 'her ladyship'.

Business stank, thought Max, as he polished the printing press. But he didn't say it out loud. Becky was out of sight, in the backroom making ink from lampblack. But her hearing was still as acute as, as a thing with really big ears. Which she hadn't. She would say, "If business is so bad, why don't we join Barry in Amsterdam?" Baruch was their eldest son, forever writing to tell them of the opportunities in the Spanish Netherlands. Personally, Max liked the sound of 'Spanish Netherlands' as much as he liked the sound of 'Spanish Spain'. But wait, here was a customer. Uh, oh. The black robes. It was Max's worst nightmare. A Dominican with a sword. As the monk came closer, Max could make out his features within the cowl. The face looked half-Moorish. Those from convert families, they were always the most fanatical. Surprisingly, the monk wanted to talk shop. He thrust a foxed pamphlet towards Max. "Can you do this?" "German, sure, I can do that for you. Better than this thing too." Max looked more closely. "Hey! This was done at Tyndale's. Not that I blame you coming to me. Call that an umlaut? So how many do you want, mister, dozens or hundreds?" "Tyndale's? Where is that, please?" the monk asked. "One block over. Hauxton Road. Can't miss it, great big cross carved on the door. Kakameyme people." "Kakameyme?" the monk looked uncomprehendingly. Didn't these people speak English? A coach-driver just off the boat, you expect that. But an Inquisitor? How would ordinary people ask him for directions? "Farblondzhet. Meshuginen. Hey-nonny-nonnied in the head." Understanding dawned on the friar's eyes. "Thank you," he said. Then he paused and looked around the shop. It was if he was searching for something but couldn't see it. "I have to ask you a few more questions, senor. Purely routine." "Fire away." "Do you believe that salvation comes from faith alone, or must we perform good works too?" Ah, riddles. Max was good at riddles. "The bible tells us we must love our neighbor as ourselves. So when we perform a mitzv... a good work, we are obeying the Lord's command." The monk nodded. "Can one pray directly to the baby Jesus, or must one go through an intermediary?" Max was indignant, "I would never pray directly to the baby Jesus. You want to do anything with a baby, you ask his mother first." The Dominican seemed satisfied that Max was orthodox. He said a blessing and walked out of the shop. Just then, Becky came in from the back room. "Who was that?" she whispered. "That, Becky, was an Inquisitor." "He was an Inquisitor? Oh, Max, why ever did we leave our dear little home in Granada?"

Here was the address for her ladyship. More was ready to drill her for information. He knocked on the door. It was answered by a striking blonde, in her mid-twenties, who still had all her teeth. It was time for an introduction, "The name is More," he paused momentarily in recollection of his travelling name, "Roger More." The interlocatrix raised one eyebrow. "Do you now? My name is Plentitudinous," she mimicked his pause, "Plentitudinous Hillocks." "I've never heard of a Saint Plentitudinous," said More, who considered himself a well-educated man. "I'm not named after a saint but a virtue. You can call me Plenty if you like." Named after a virtue and not a saint, thought More, must be one of these old Camridgeshire customs. "A virtue, eh? Are you very good?" "I've had no complaints," said Plenty, modestly. She noticed More's implement. "What an unusually large stick," she said. "I can do tricks with it," said More proudly, "but they're kind of, uh, secret. Would you like to come up to my room?" "I would indeed," smiled Plenty, "but I must warn you, I'm expecting you to put on quite a performance!"

Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron

More lay back on the pillow. Plenty was in the other room with the bucket of water, freshening up. She had been like a tiger, scratching his back with her long nails and crying "Oh, Thomas, Thomas!" But there was something at the back of his mind, worrying him. He hoped she would return soon so that he could commence a more cerebral intercourse. And then he heard her voice behind him. It was too much of an effort to turn his head. "I am an incorrigible sinner," she said. "Oh, don't be so hard on yourself," said More jocularly, "Let me be..." But Plenty would not be silenced. "We cannot bribe God with good works; we can only surrender to him." What was this about surrender? More had plenty of women use the word before but not in relation to the Deity. "Surrender?" "Surrender to His ineffable Grace." The only Grace More knew certainly wasn't ineffable. She went like a... But what was Plenty saying? It sounded almost like Lutheran talk. And then he realized what was bothering him - Plenty had called him 'Thomas' rather than his travelling name. He glanced at the mirror on the wall. Plenty was standing behind him with a dagger poised! More rolled of the bed onto the floor as the knife entered the pillow in a spurt of feathers. He grabbed for the sword cane. The blade, which had come so easily when he was performing tricks earlier, was stuck fast. A shadow loomed over him. It was Plenty. He rolled again, the knife missed but he felt the full weight of her body on his shoulder. In pain, he rolled a little further but then she was astride him, dagger raised high. "You'll never get away with this. Even if you kill me you'll be hanged, or burnt, or both." "Then I shall wear a martyr's crown," she said, blue eyes ablaze, visions of the Crystal Sea swirling in her head. Straining, she brought both hands down to plunge the blade in More's unprotected heart. Brother Felix, looking singed and bruised, opened the door behind her. Taking in the tableau instantly he plunged his borrowed sword into Plenty's back. It slid in easily between the second and third rib. She immediately fell dead. It was most unusual, thought Felix. In his experience death involved blood, entrails and loss of bodily control. But this heretical wanton lay there in peace and uncorrupted, looking for all the world like an icon of the body of St Cecilia. More broke into a half smile, "Felix, I'll bet that's the first time you've penetrated a woman!" Brother Felix had deep brown eyes. The contrast between his irises and the whites was most pronounced when he rolled his eyes, which he proceeded to do. [To be continued]

[1] Tomás de Torquemada (1420-1498) the Spanish Grand Inquisitor was the, um, nephew of the equally celebrated Juan de Torquemada (1388-1468) the eminent theologian. But for Felix to name his weapon Juan Tomás would have been just plain wrong.