more deeply this time. The warm glow of inevitability and fate. Sir John Hawkwood was a hard man, the hardest he had ever known, but this plan of his, despite its ruthlessness, was melting the great mercenary into a soup of sentiment. “His given name hardly matters, John. It’s his surname that will bear his nobility.”
“Well spoken, Scarlett.” Hawkwood turned back to his family’s arms, his eyes verdant with the ambition of a much younger man. “England, Adam,” the condottiero said. “It is time to go home.”
Chapter vii
Temple Hall
D ozens of struggling lamps cast a hellish glow on the huddled apprentices, all stomping their feet against the raw air, their eager faces greyed by the smoke lowering down from those few chimneys rebuilt in this precinct since the Rising. I slowed in the middle of the courtyard and just watched them: their pent-up energy, their fear of rejection, their tentative pride at this rite of passage, all readable in the nervous poses struck as they waited. Forty young men, no more than half to be utter barristers by the evening’s end.
Fifteen years had passed since my own, less formal initiation at the Temple, yet the occasion could still raise the hairs. As I stepped beneath the row of arches along the cloister a familiar voice stopped me. “Is that you, John Gower?” I turned to see Thomas Pinchbeak hobbling along from Temple Church, with Chaucer holding an arm. “Wait there.” He wiped his high forehead, exposed by the tight-fitting coif worn by his order. A capped stick bore part of his fragile weight.
“Good evening, Thomas. Geoffrey.” I took his stick and his other arm, my hand brushing the silk rope belted around his banded robes. Pinchbeak was a man who had grown into his name, with a long, sharp nose that jutted forward above lips pursed against some unnamed offense. Behind the serjeant-at-law’s back Chaucer gave me a meaningful look, which I returned with a subtle shake of my head. We hadn’t spoken since Monksblood’s, I had no real news yet about the book, and I didn’t want him to think I was avoiding him.
“Lurking at the fringes, I see,” Pinchbeak said to me, and I smiled at the ribbing. My ambivalent ties to the legal world were a matter of occasional amusement to Pinchbeak, newly a member of the Order of the Coif, one of the most powerful lawmen in the realm and now a royal nod away from appointment to justice of the King’s Bench.
“You are one to talk.” I gestured across the lane at the last of the crowd straggling into the hall. “Late, as always.”
“Ah, but I have the excuse of a wound,” he said, though something in his eyes belied his easy manner. A compact and wiry man, Pinchbeak had taken an arrow in his left thigh at Poitiers yet stood and fought for hours after, an incident that had rendered him both lame and legendary. When he gave the gold and ascended to serjeant not a soul in the realm begrudged him the honor. Yet his face that evening was troubled, and he seemed about to say something more when a small group of other serjeants-at-law surrounded him, hustling him gaily into the throng.
Chaucer watched him go in, then turned to me, his face lined with concern. “Nothing?”
“Not really.”
“What did Swynford say?”
“Very little,” I said, deciding to mention nothing about the book’s theft, nor about Swynford’s peculiar suggestion regarding its prophetic nature. I needed to learn more first, and I was not in the business of giving away information, even to an intimate friend. “She doesn’t have it, if that’s what you want to know. She’ll do some discreet asking around.”
“I see,” said Chaucer, looking at me dubiously.
“I’ve only started searching, Geoff,” I said, wanting to give him something. “London is a big place. A book could be anywhere.”
He gave me a tense nod.
“Just one question.” I pulled him out of the human flow. His eyes darted to the hall door, then back to the lane as
“Well spoken, Scarlett.” Hawkwood turned back to his family’s arms, his eyes verdant with the ambition of a much younger man. “England, Adam,” the condottiero said. “It is time to go home.”
Chapter vii
Temple Hall
D ozens of struggling lamps cast a hellish glow on the huddled apprentices, all stomping their feet against the raw air, their eager faces greyed by the smoke lowering down from those few chimneys rebuilt in this precinct since the Rising. I slowed in the middle of the courtyard and just watched them: their pent-up energy, their fear of rejection, their tentative pride at this rite of passage, all readable in the nervous poses struck as they waited. Forty young men, no more than half to be utter barristers by the evening’s end.
Fifteen years had passed since my own, less formal initiation at the Temple, yet the occasion could still raise the hairs. As I stepped beneath the row of arches along the cloister a familiar voice stopped me. “Is that you, John Gower?” I turned to see Thomas Pinchbeak hobbling along from Temple Church, with Chaucer holding an arm. “Wait there.” He wiped his high forehead, exposed by the tight-fitting coif worn by his order. A capped stick bore part of his fragile weight.
“Good evening, Thomas. Geoffrey.” I took his stick and his other arm, my hand brushing the silk rope belted around his banded robes. Pinchbeak was a man who had grown into his name, with a long, sharp nose that jutted forward above lips pursed against some unnamed offense. Behind the serjeant-at-law’s back Chaucer gave me a meaningful look, which I returned with a subtle shake of my head. We hadn’t spoken since Monksblood’s, I had no real news yet about the book, and I didn’t want him to think I was avoiding him.
“Lurking at the fringes, I see,” Pinchbeak said to me, and I smiled at the ribbing. My ambivalent ties to the legal world were a matter of occasional amusement to Pinchbeak, newly a member of the Order of the Coif, one of the most powerful lawmen in the realm and now a royal nod away from appointment to justice of the King’s Bench.
“You are one to talk.” I gestured across the lane at the last of the crowd straggling into the hall. “Late, as always.”
“Ah, but I have the excuse of a wound,” he said, though something in his eyes belied his easy manner. A compact and wiry man, Pinchbeak had taken an arrow in his left thigh at Poitiers yet stood and fought for hours after, an incident that had rendered him both lame and legendary. When he gave the gold and ascended to serjeant not a soul in the realm begrudged him the honor. Yet his face that evening was troubled, and he seemed about to say something more when a small group of other serjeants-at-law surrounded him, hustling him gaily into the throng.
Chaucer watched him go in, then turned to me, his face lined with concern. “Nothing?”
“Not really.”
“What did Swynford say?”
“Very little,” I said, deciding to mention nothing about the book’s theft, nor about Swynford’s peculiar suggestion regarding its prophetic nature. I needed to learn more first, and I was not in the business of giving away information, even to an intimate friend. “She doesn’t have it, if that’s what you want to know. She’ll do some discreet asking around.”
“I see,” said Chaucer, looking at me dubiously.
“I’ve only started searching, Geoff,” I said, wanting to give him something. “London is a big place. A book could be anywhere.”
He gave me a tense nod.
“Just one question.” I pulled him out of the human flow. His eyes darted to the hall door, then back to the lane as
Similar Books
