The King's Deception

Ovid tells the tale, in his Metamorphoses (VIII: 183–235), of how Daedalus and his young son, Icarus, were imprisoned in a tower on Crete. Escape from land or sea was impossible, as the king controlled both. So Daedalus made wings for both himself and his son. He tied feathers together and secured them with wax, curving them like a bird’s. When finished, he taught Icarus how to use the wings, but he provided two warnings: Do not fly too high or the sun will melt the wax, or too low as the sea will soak the feathers. Using the wings, they made their escape, passing Samos, Delos, and Lebynthos. Icarus was so excited he forgot his father’s warnings and soared toward the sun. The wax melted and the wings collapsed, sending Icarus into the sea, where he drowned.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the circled text, was more blue lettering.

HEED THE WARNING OF DAEDALUS AND AVOID THE SON

He immediately noticed the difference in spelling.

Son, as opposed to sun.

These men were indeed knowledgeable.

Beneath was another line of scrawl.

CALL WHEN READY TO DEAL

And an English phone number.

Sure of themselves. Not call if you want to deal—when.

He sucked a few deep breaths and steeled himself. He was close to panic, but fear and urgency provided his flagging muscles strength.

Maybe they were right.

This was gestating out of control, more so than he was accustomed to handling.

He tore the page from the book and stuffed it into his pocket.

Thirteen

Kathleen followed Mathews from the hall, out into the rain. They crossed Middle Temple Lane, turned left, and entered one of the many office buildings, this one with windows opening to the Pump Court. The little courtyard was named after its mechanisms, once used to fight fires. The reservoir was located deep beneath the flagstones, fed by one of London’s underground rivers. The ancient well remained but the pumps were long gone. On the court’s north side she saw the dark outline of a sundial, legendary thanks to its caption. Shadows we are and like shadows we depart.

All of the office doors inside the building were closed, the hallway quiet. Mathews led the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, his cane click-clacking off the wooden steps. The Inns of Court acquired their name because members once studied and lived on the grounds. Once, they were independent, self-governing legal colleges, a graduate called to the bar, becoming a barrister, able to appear in court as a client’s advocate.

But always under the discipline of the Inn.

The custom then was for clients to consult with their barristers not in chambers but under the porch of the Temple Church or at Westminster Hall, where the courts sat until the end of the 19th century. All of those time-honored practices were now gone, the many buildings within both the Middle and Inner Temple grounds converted to working offices. Only the upper floors remained residences, used collectively by the two Inns.

She climbed with Mathews to the top, where he opened the door to one of the apartments. No lights burned inside. A Regency sofa, chairs, and a glass-fronted curio cabinet loomed in the dark. Bare hooks were evident on the walls, where pictures should have hung. The smell of fresh paint was strong.

“They are remodeling,” he said.

Mathews closed the door and led her to a window on the far side. Below stood the Temple Church, smothered by the surrounding buildings, fronted by a wet courtyard.

“Much history has occurred down there, too,” Mathews said. “That church has existed, in one form or another, for nearly 1,000 years.”

She knew that a condition of James I’s royal land grant to the barristers was that the Temple Church must be perpetually maintained as a place of worship. The church itself had garnered an air of mystery and romance, giving rise to improbable legends, but she knew it only as the Inns’ private chapel.

“We Brits have always prided ourselves on the rule of law,” Mathews said. “The Inns were where legal practitioners learned the craft. What has this place been called? The noblest nursery of liberty and humanity in the kingdom. Aptly put.”

She agreed.

“Magna Carta was the start of our faith in the law,” Mathews noted. “What a momentous act, if you think about it. Barons demanding, and obtaining, from their sovereign thirty-seven concessions on royal power.”

“Most of which were never applied and eventually repealed,” she had to say.

“Quite right. Only three still remain in effect. But one overriding principle came from Magna Carta. No free man could be punished except through the law of the land. That singular concept changed the course of this nation.”

Below, in the courtyard, the rain quickened to a drizzle.