clap of thunder. A heavy crash of falling
stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak’s mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared
up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.
‘Down, matey, down,’ he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.
‘All right?’ Barak asked.
‘Yes.’ I gulped. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘God’s death, the dust.’ The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak’s doublet were spotted with grey.
‘Come on, let’s get out of this.’
‘I’m sorry, sirs,’ the workman called after us anxiously.
‘So you should be! Arsehole!’ Barak called over his shoulder.
We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick
action I could have had a bad fall.
I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln’s Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses
stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell’s livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his
fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.
Barak pushed open the heavy door of the church and we stepped in. Rolls of parchment bound in red tape lay everywhere, stacked against the walls with their faded paintings of biblical scenes and
piled up along the pews. Here and there a black-robed law clerk stood picking among them, seeking precedents. More clerks waited in a queue beside the door to the Six Clerks’ Office, seeking
writs or dates for hearings.
I had never visited the office, for on the rare occasions I did have a case on in Chancery I would send a clerk to deal with the notoriously lengthy paperwork. I stared at the endless rolls.
Barak followed my gaze.
‘The ghosts of the old Jews have poor reading,’ he said. ‘Come on, through here.’ He led me towards a walled-off side chapel; another guard in bright livery stood outside
the door. Did Cromwell take armed guards everywhere nowadays? I wondered. Barak knocked softly and entered. I took a deep breath as I followed him, for my heart was thumping powerfully against my
ribs.
The wall paintings of the side chapel had been whitewashed over, for Thomas Cromwell hated idolatrous decoration. The chapel had been converted into a large office, with cupboards against the
walls and chairs drawn up before an imposing desk lit incongruously by a stained-glass window above. There was no one behind it; Cromwell was not there. In a corner, behind a smaller desk, sat a
short, black-robed figure I knew: Edwin Grey, Lord Cromwell’s secretary. He had been at Cromwell’s side for fifteen years, since the time the earl had worked for Wolsey. When I was in
favour I had had much legal business through him. Grey rose and bowed to us. His round, pink face under the thinning grey hair was anxious.
He shook my hand; the fingers of his own were black from years of ink. He nodded at Barak; I caught distaste in his look.
‘Master Shardlake. How do you fare, sir? It has been a long time.’
‘Well enough, Master Grey. And you?’
‘Well enough, given the times. The earl had to deal with a message, he will be back in a moment.’
‘How is he?’ I ventured.
Grey hesitated. ‘You will see.’ He turned abruptly as the door was thrown open and Thomas Cromwell strode into the room. My old master’s heavy features were frowning, but at
the sight of me he smiled broadly. I bowed low.
‘Matthew, Matthew!’ Cromwell said enthusiastically. He shook my hand with his powerful grip, then went and sat
stone, accompanied by cheers, sounded as a surging cloud of dust rolled over us. Hot-blooded as it looked, Barak’s mare only neighed and jerked aside, but Chancery let out a scream and reared
up on his hind legs, nearly unseating me. Barak reached across and grabbed the reins.
‘Down, matey, down,’ he said firmly. Chancery calmed at once, dropping to his feet again. He stood trembling; I was shaking too.
‘All right?’ Barak asked.
‘Yes.’ I gulped. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘God’s death, the dust.’ The powdery cloud, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, swirled round us and in a moment my robe and Barak’s doublet were spotted with grey.
‘Come on, let’s get out of this.’
‘I’m sorry, sirs,’ the workman called after us anxiously.
‘So you should be! Arsehole!’ Barak called over his shoulder.
We turned up Chancery Lane, the horses still nervous and troubled by the heat and flies. I was perspiring freely but Barak seemed quite cool. I was reluctantly grateful to him; but for his quick
action I could have had a bad fall.
I looked longingly for a moment at the familiar Lincoln’s Inn gatehouse as Barak led the way through the gate of the Rolls House directly opposite. At the centre of a complex of houses
stood a large, solidly built church. A guard in the yellow and blue quarters of Cromwell’s livery stood outside the door with a pike. Barak nodded to him and the man bowed and snapped his
fingers for a boy to lead our horses away.
Barak pushed open the heavy door of the church and we stepped in. Rolls of parchment bound in red tape lay everywhere, stacked against the walls with their faded paintings of biblical scenes and
piled up along the pews. Here and there a black-robed law clerk stood picking among them, seeking precedents. More clerks waited in a queue beside the door to the Six Clerks’ Office, seeking
writs or dates for hearings.
I had never visited the office, for on the rare occasions I did have a case on in Chancery I would send a clerk to deal with the notoriously lengthy paperwork. I stared at the endless rolls.
Barak followed my gaze.
‘The ghosts of the old Jews have poor reading,’ he said. ‘Come on, through here.’ He led me towards a walled-off side chapel; another guard in bright livery stood outside
the door. Did Cromwell take armed guards everywhere nowadays? I wondered. Barak knocked softly and entered. I took a deep breath as I followed him, for my heart was thumping powerfully against my
ribs.
The wall paintings of the side chapel had been whitewashed over, for Thomas Cromwell hated idolatrous decoration. The chapel had been converted into a large office, with cupboards against the
walls and chairs drawn up before an imposing desk lit incongruously by a stained-glass window above. There was no one behind it; Cromwell was not there. In a corner, behind a smaller desk, sat a
short, black-robed figure I knew: Edwin Grey, Lord Cromwell’s secretary. He had been at Cromwell’s side for fifteen years, since the time the earl had worked for Wolsey. When I was in
favour I had had much legal business through him. Grey rose and bowed to us. His round, pink face under the thinning grey hair was anxious.
He shook my hand; the fingers of his own were black from years of ink. He nodded at Barak; I caught distaste in his look.
‘Master Shardlake. How do you fare, sir? It has been a long time.’
‘Well enough, Master Grey. And you?’
‘Well enough, given the times. The earl had to deal with a message, he will be back in a moment.’
‘How is he?’ I ventured.
Grey hesitated. ‘You will see.’ He turned abruptly as the door was thrown open and Thomas Cromwell strode into the room. My old master’s heavy features were frowning, but at
the sight of me he smiled broadly. I bowed low.
‘Matthew, Matthew!’ Cromwell said enthusiastically. He shook my hand with his powerful grip, then went and sat
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