The High court writing hall was forty paces long. He was built with vaulted ribs of gray Pennine limestone that caught the damp chill of the winter river below. For forty years, sixty salaried clerks had sat along these dual rows of sloped oak benches, scratching out tax checks, forest fines, and writs of attainder with goose-quill pens that left purple-black splatters across the floorboards. Today, the benches stood deserted. The high pewter inkwells had been stoppered with corks. The tall iron stoves were cold. And the yellow wax seals of the Supreme Court of King’s Bench hung from the iron latch of every deed chest.
Tomas set his ash-wood pack frame down upon the master scrivener’s table in the center of the hall. The seasoned oak frame creaked softly as its load was removed. He pulled off his fingerless wool mittens, blowing onto his red knuckles before unbuckling his lead-lined courier satchel. His left wrist throbbed with a dull, steady ache where the cold river air had stiffened the deep gristle scar across his flexor tendon. He sat upon a low packing crate, unbuckled the calfskin wrist brace, and step by step worked his stiff fingers. Thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to little finger, forcing the sluggish blood through the scarred tissue until the numbness pulled back.
