Best Kept Secret

doors of the stateroom so his master
could set off on the seven-minute journey to the chamber of the House of Lords.
    Members, badge messengers and house officials going about their daily business stepped quickly to one side when they spotted the Lord Chancellor approaching, making sure his progress to the
chamber was unimpeded. As he passed by, they bowed low, not to him, but to the Sovereign he represented. He proceeded along the red-carpeted corridor at the same pace as he had done every day for
the past six years, in order that he would enter the chamber on the first chime when Big Ben struck ten in the forenoon.
    On a normal day, and this was not a normal day, whenever he entered the chamber he would be met by a handful of members who would rise politely from the red benches, bow to the Lord Chancellor
and remain standing while the bishop on duty conducted morning prayers, after which the business of the day could commence.
    But not today, because long before he reached the chamber, he could hear the murmur of chattering voices. Even the Lord Chancellor was surprised by the sight that greeted him when he entered
their lordships’ house. The red benches were so packed that some members had migrated to the steps in front of the throne, while others stood at the bar of the House, unable to find a seat.
The only other occasion on which he remembered the House being so full was when His Majesty delivered the King’s Speech, in which he informed members of both Houses of the legislation his
government proposed to enact during the next session of Parliament.
    As the Lord Chancellor walked into the chamber, their lordships immediately stopped talking, rose as one and bowed when he took his place in front of the Woolsack.
    The senior law officer in the land looked slowly around the chamber to be met by over a thousand impatient eyes. His gaze finally settled on three young people who were seated at the far end of
the chamber, directly above him in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery. Giles Barrington, his sister Emma and Harry Clifton wore funereal black in respect for a beloved grandfather and, in
Harry’s case, a mentor and dear friend. He felt for all three of them, aware that the judgment he was about to make would change their whole lives. He prayed it would be for the better.
    When the Right Reverend Peter Watts, Bishop of Bristol – how appropriate, the Lord Chancellor thought – opened his prayer book, their lordships bowed their heads, and didn’t
lift them again until he’d uttered the words, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’
    The assembled gathering resumed their places, to leave the Lord Chancellor the only person still on his feet. Once they’d settled, their lordships sat back and waited to hear his
verdict.
    ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘I cannot pretend that the judgment you have entrusted me with has proved easy. On the contrary, I confess it to be one of the most difficult decisions
I’ve had to make in my long career at the bar. But then it was Thomas More who reminded us that when you don these robes you must be willing to make decisions that will rarely please all men.
And indeed, my lords, on three such occasions in the past, the Lord Chancellor, having delivered his judgment, was later that day beheaded.’
    The laughter that followed broke the tension, but only for a moment.
    ‘However, it remains my duty to remember,’ he added after the laughter had died down, ‘that I am answerable only to the Almighty. With that in mind, my lords, in the case of
Barrington versus Clifton, as to who should succeed Sir Hugo Barrington as his rightful heir and be granted the family title, the lands and all that therein is . . .’
    The Lord Chancellor once again glanced up towards the gallery, and hesitated. His eyes settled on the three innocent young people in the dock, who continued to stare down at him. He prayed for
the Wisdom of Solomon before he added, ‘Having considered all the facts, I come down in favour of . . . Giles Barrington.’
    A buzz of murmuring voices immediately erupted from the floor of the House. Journalists quickly left the press gallery to report the Lord Chancellor’s ruling to their waiting editors that
the hereditary principle remained intact and Harry Clifton could now ask Emma Barrington to be his lawfully wedded wife, while the public in the visitors’ gallery leant over the balcony
railings to see how their lordships