At midnight. Meanwhile, the working watch paced the fog-shrouded cobbles of Printer’s Alley, an old one-horse hackney carriage rattled down the lane, its wooden wheels wrapped in hemp rope to muffle the sound of their iron tires against the stones. The carriage pulled into the alley behind Caxton’s printshop. Sile Rook opened the door with his hooked pruning blade held ready. From the dark inside of the coach, aided by two young apprentice draymen, emerged a frail, trembling old man wrapped in a huge black frieze cloak.
Aaron Coram was seventy-eight years old, his spine bent into a sharp, painful curve, his watery old eyes watery behind thick horn glasses. For forty-five years, he had lived in scared seclusion in a tiny garret near the North Gate. He took in private copying work for animal fat-chandlers to pay his weekly rent. But sixty winters ago, in Michaelmas Anno 272, Aaron Coram had been a young man of eighteen winters—the personal recording clerk to Chancellor Malvern the Elder.
Tomas Reed helped the old man into the back office, easing him into a cushioned armchair beside the coal stove. Scribe Olla right away brought him a hot mug of steeped elderberry wine. Meanwhile, Hester Quill laid out three fresh sheets of sheepskin parchment and dipped her finest goose quill into dark oak-ink. Beside Hester sat three elderly, independent public notaries, their brass seals of office resting on the baize table.
