A Burnable Book by Bruce Holsinger Page A

business, though as always in his presence the talk was subdued. He wore long robes cut in the French fashion, a wide collar squeezing his thin neck. His fair hair, shoulder length and uncovered, swept from side to side as he spoke to his minions and those seeking a word. The king’s impromptu entries into Westminster Hall were of a piece with his increasing love of ceremony, these portentous shows of authority that brought him in ritual touch with his subjects as often as he liked. If he caught your eye on one of these occasions you took a knee, no questions asked.
    Yet there was a strange gentleness in the young king’s bearing, a warmth of gesture and look I had never felt from his father, whose princely arrogance had surpassed even Gaunt’s among old King Edward’s sons. Though barely into his nineteenth year, this man had real reverence for the crown and its regal history, in ample evidence around the space. King Richard had recently commissioned statues of England’s past kings to be installed around the hall, with his own likeness culminating the series. The Confessor already stood in splendor against the south wall, his robes and crown gilded luxuriously, and a limner at work on his feet.
    I leaned unobtrusively against one of the hall’s great pillars, watching the king, when his head turned in my direction. His eyes found mine, and sparkled with what looked like affection. It took me aback: since his coronation I’d had perhaps three brief interactions with the king, none of them remarkable in any way. Surprised by this sliver of royal attention, I went to my knee and held the pose until King Richard released me with a slight, boyish smile and a swivel of his chin. It was a moment of genuine connection I would hold in my mind in the weeks ahead, as I learned of our intertwined fates.
    “Quite a mess up there.” Ralph Strode had come up behind me. He grasped my arm. We gazed together into the vaults, the moist flakes of sawdust descending in thin streams, stirred up by work on a platform high above. For years there had been talk of an entire new roof, though for now all was timber and shingle, the ceiling playing a constant game of catch-up against rain and birds, bats and wind.
    King Richard left the hall, the accustomed din rising again in his wake. As I turned to walk with Strode I was struck by his appearance. The common serjeant’s skin was deeply veined, his eyes rheumy, his skin puffy and pink. He barked a wheezing cough into his sleeve.
    “You’re the busiest man in London, Ralph. I appreciate the time.”
    He shook his head. “For you I’d renegotiate the date of Easter with the Greeks!”
    We strolled along the booths as I told him why I was there. For months I had been tangled up over my lands east of Southwark. A wealthy merchant, building a house on a neighboring lot, had sued for ownership, claiming that certain acreage fell within the boundaries of his property. Though the case hardly threatened my livelihood, it was requiring more of my time than it deserved, and I could find nothing to use against the man. Strode had just the sort of urban pull to finesse a transfer of jurisdiction from the bishop’s court across the river. He was one of the few men in London’s upper bureaucracy I could honestly call a friend, and he owed me a stack of favors as high as the north tower. “The short of it, Ralph, is that I want to get this moved to Westminster, into Common Pleas.”
    “You’ll need a writ of pone, then,” Strode said.
    “There may be some complications.”
    He asked about the deeds, security, documentation, clarifying several matters. At the end he shook his head dismissively. “None of this should present a problem for writ of pone . I’ll put James Tewburn on it when I get back to the Guildhall.”
    I inclined my head. “You’re a big gem, Ralph.”
    “Believe me, it will be my most pleasant task of the week, and if I can use it to avoid other entanglements . . .” His