Heartstone by C. J. Sansom Page B

narrow buildings. Along a side lane the old Templar church was visible. Vincent Dyrick practised in the Temple. I thought, only four days now until the hearing. I walked on past Temple Gardens, where the recent storms had laid great wreaths of petals under the rose bushes, and down to Temple Stairs.
    The river was still crowded with supply boats heading east. I saw one barge laden with arquebuses, five-foot iron barrels glinting in the sun. The boatman told me all the King’s ships had sailed out from Deptford now, bound for Portsmouth. ‘We’ll sink those French bastards,’ he said.
    At Westminster Stairs two barges were tied up, each with a dozen men leaning on the oars. I climbed up into New Palace Yard, under the huge shadow of Westminster Hall. A company of a hundred soldiers was drawn up beside the great fountain, resplendent in the red and white of the London Trained Bands. They made a magnificent display, as they were meant to. Their weapons were a stark contrast to their bright uniforms: dark, heavy wooden maces with heads full 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.

    THE 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.
    â€˜But how could they do that?’ she asked. ‘It makes no sense.’
    â€˜I have told you, my lady,’ he answered patiently, ‘here, it is expecting sense that makes no sense.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.

    INSIDE, 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