Heartstone by C. J. Sansom

of spikes and studs in elaborate, brutal designs.
    Facing them was a stocky officer on a black horse, with a surcoat in the royal colours, green and white, a plumed helmet on his head. A crowd of onlookers lined the square, the hawkers, pedlars and prostitutes of Westminster and some clerks from the courts. One of the whores pulled down her bodice to display her breasts to the recruits, and people nearby laughed and cheered. The officer smiled faintly.
    The soldiers had a tense, expectant air, watching as the officer produced an impressive-looking parchment, held it up with a flourish, and began declaiming: 'By the faith I bear to God and King, I will truly obey the martial laws or statutes.' He paused and the men repeated his words in a loud chant. I realized this was a swearing in, men taking the oath binding them to full-time service, and I pushed my way through the crowd, a careful hand on my purse. Then, suddenly, I was in the narrow, dark lane between Westminster Hall and the abbey, deserted save for a white-headed old clerk walking slowly towards me, bent under the weight of a pile of papers.
    I arrived at the group of old Norman buildings behind Westminster Hall, white stone shabby with soot. Instead of heading for the Court of Requests as usual, I opened a stout wooden door in the adjacent building and climbed a flight of narrow stone steps to a wide archway. Above it was a carved representation of the seal of the Court of Wards; the royal arms and underneath the figures of two young children bearing a scroll with the Latin motto of the court: Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor . A helper to wards, orphans and widows.

    T HE BROAD VESTIBULE of the court was dim, with the familiar law court smell of dust, old paper and sweat. A number of doors led off to one side, while on the other several people sat on a long wooden bench, their faces strained and tight. All were richly dressed. There was a couple in their thirties, the man in a fine doublet and the woman in a silk dress and a hood lined with pearls. A little way along sat a boy of about ten in a satin jerkin. A young woman in a dark, high-collared dress held his hand as she argued with a barrister I did not know.
    'But how could they do that?' she asked. 'It makes no sense.'
    'I have told you, my lady,' he answered patiently, 'here, it is expecting sense that makes no sense.'
    'Excuse me, Brother,' I asked. 'Can you direct me to the clerk's office?'
    He looked at me curiously. 'The door behind you, Brother. You new to Wards?'
    'Yes.'
    He tapped his waist where his purse hung. I nodded. The child looked at us with an expression of desperate puzzlement. I knocked at the clerk's door.

    I NSIDE , a large room was divided in two by a wooden counter. On the far side, under a window through which the sky was still darkening, a thin, grey-haired clerk in a dusty robe sat working at a desk. A younger, thin-faced clerk was arranging papers on the shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The older clerk looked up, the steady scratch of his quill ceasing, and came across to me. His lined face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He bowed briefly, then laid a pair of ink-stained hands on the counter and stared at me enquiringly, quite unintimidated by my serjeant's coif. The clerks held great power in all the courts, but usually they showed deference to barristers and serjeants. The Court of Wards, it seemed, was different.
    'Yes, sir?' he asked neutrally.
    I opened my satchel and laid Michael Calfhill's summons on the counter. 'Good day, master clerk. My name is Serjeant Shardlake. I wish to go on record in this case. I believe Master Warner, the Queen's attorney, has written to Attorney Sewster.'
    He looked at the paper, then back at me, his expression a shade more respectful. 'Yes, sir. I was told to allow a late entry on the record. But Master Sewster also told me to say, sir, that evidence to support the plaintiff's case needs to be