The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘My lady, if it pleases you to call me “Goat,” then who am I to naysay you? “Goat” it is.’

  She did smile at that, and Jack’s heart warmed. But her smile soon faded. ‘How can I ever tell you what has transpired? How can I ever say?’

  ‘Well, as my master says, it’s best to begin at the beginning and then I can see how it all lies.’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the door to her garden burst open and a gaggle of lady’s maids spilled out. ‘My lady, you must come inside,’ said the oldest, in the same strange accent as the young woman.

  ‘Oh, but …’ She looked up helplessly at Jack.

  He smiled and waved her off and gave her the thumbs up. She frowned at that, not seeming to understand, and cocked her head beguilingly.

  ‘My lady, please!’ cried the lady’s maid, grabbing the woman’s elbow and lifting her to her feet. Jack could see that she was a delicate creature and not too tall.

  Still she hesitated, seeming reluctant to leave Jack. He tried to convey that he would be back with gestures and head nods.

  ‘My lady,’ said the impatient maid. ‘Your husband the king awaits!’

  Jack’s heart seized and his jaw fell slack. They ushered her away at last. She glanced once over her shoulder toward him with a hopeful expression before the door closed on her.

  Jack’s hands slipped, and he slid none too gently over the rough stone wall back down on his side of the garden. He fell in a heap and stayed there a good long time until the smell of wet earth filled his nostrils and the sun set over the rooftops of Westminster.

  TWELVE

  ‘Peace, Crispin. Must you pace so?’

  Still red-faced with embarrassment, Crispin moved restlessly about the room. Did he not live in poverty enough to embarrass himself? Must his associates make it worse? ‘And why are you still in those clothes, John?’ he growled.

  ‘I didn’t have time to change … and Stephen likes me in them.’

  ‘Spare me the details.’

  ‘Well, if you will ask …’

  ‘What did you find out? About the gonne powder?’

  ‘Ah, well then. Stephen has agreed to talk with you tomorrow and tell you about obtaining the stuff.’

  ‘Right.’ Crispin rubbed at his face. Pangs of hunger clawed at his insides, the first he had felt in a while. He turned toward the pantry shelf and saw a coney hanging upside down by its feet and silently blessed Jack. ‘Will … will you sup with me, John? My apprentice has left us a rabbit. And though I am a poor cook, it will be sustenance.’

  ‘I have a way in the kitchen. Will you let me cook it for us?’

  ‘Is there no end to your talents?’

  ‘So many,’ he chuckled. ‘It is why I am so sought after.’

  ‘John, details. Leave them out.’

  John laughed outright at that but pulled down the coney, whipped out his dagger, and began to expertly skin the beast.

  The rabbit was roasting nicely over the fire, and John and Crispin enjoyed the wine from their bowls. John had chopped the turnips along with their greens into a pot and had added an onion and a bit of butter and wine. Crispin thought it smelled heavenly, and his stomach growled equally in appreciation.

  John leaned over and poked a pronged fork into the roasting flesh and declared that it was done and commenced tearing off the hindquarters and placing them on a wooden platter. He spooned the turnip and onion mixture onto the platter as well and placed it upon the table.

  ‘There! A supper fit for a king.’

  ‘Or only his servants.’

  Crispin offered John the first choice, and the man stabbed a leg with his knife and brought the steaming meat to his lips. He took a bite and smiled, closing his eyes in ecstasy. ‘Quite tasty, if I do say so myself.’

  That was good enough for Crispin and he, too, dug in with his knife.

  With his mouth full, John leaned into the table. ‘What did you discover from those men in the tavern?’

  Crispin speared a turnip and turned it, glaring at the cube. He was weary of turnips but when he took a bite it seemed to have a whole new flavor from what he was used to. John did seem to have a way in the kitchen. ‘Those men never turned up. I was waylaid by yet other men. I tell you, John, there seems to be a wider conspiracy afoot. Or the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘These factions. There seems to be little organization behind it. And though they know about one another, no one seems to have the Stone or know its exact whereabouts. It seems to be a conspiracy of fools.’

  ‘And yet the Stone is just as gone as before.’

  ‘Yes. It is serious. But the question is, do any of these men truly have anything to do with the Stone or are they using me to find it for them?’

  John lowered his food to the platter and stared. ‘That is diabolical indeed! Who would be so devious?’

  ‘This is no mere prank. A lord is involved. Though it does me little good if he is in Scotland.’

  ‘Then I would not worry over him but over his underlings, for they are the ones who are here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Crispin brought the wine bowl to his lips and drank, brooding. ‘Have you ever heard the term “Mormaer”?’

  John shook his head. ‘I can’t say I have. What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some Scottish term or title. I shall have to seek out my Scottish spy in the morning.’

  ‘Crispin! A Scottish spy! You are full of surprises.’

  They talked as they ate, and when they were through and had cleared the platters and bowls and stirred the fire to something warm and pleasant, Crispin looked up at his visitor. ‘It is late. You should stay.’

  John’s slow smile made Crispin immediately regret his choice of words. ‘Why, Crispin!’

  ‘You know what I meant, damn you! The straw. Over there! Jack isn’t using it.’

  John pulled off his gown at last and stood in his shift to unbraid his hair. ‘Straw? Ah, this takes me back.’ He laid his gown on the straw and sat atop it, using the folded blanket beside it to cover his feet and legs. ‘You keep your apprentice on straw? Does not Jack deserve a cot at the very least?’

  Crispin had divested himself of cotehardie and boots. He sat on his own rickety bed in stocking feet and his chemise. Frowning, he pulled his legs up and tucked them under the blanket. ‘He has never complained.’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t now, would he? He’s a proper apprentice, isn’t he? And he adores you. He’d never complain or expect more than he gets, I suspect.’

  Crispin lay back, resting his head on his laced hands, and watched the hearthglow waver on the ceiling. ‘I … I suppose I never thought about it.’

  ‘Bless me, I adore you, too, but you are sometimes a dense man, Crispin Guest.’

  ‘That I am,’ he said wearily.

  He fell asleep later than he wanted, to thoughts of where in London to find a proper cot for his apprentice … and worrying that the boy would never come home to enjoy it.

  Crispin awoke early, earlier than the snoring Rykener, and nudged him with his foot to awaken him. ‘Get up, John. I have porridge.’

  John yawned and stretched. ‘What a quality host you are, Crispin.’

  Crispin grunted in reply, tossed last night’s wine from the bowls into the fire, and spooned barley porridge into each.

  After they had eaten and made ablutions – John insisted on shaving first, holding out his hands and displaying his women’s garb in explanation – he and Crispin left the lodgings just as the bells tolled Terce.

  ‘We are early to meet him,’ said John, pulling his cloak about him to ward off the chill wind.

  ‘Does he live nearby?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Let us go, then. We’re wasting time.’

  ‘But he won’t like my making an appearance at his lodgings during the day.’ Crispin gave him a look that made John roll his eyes. ‘Very well. It’s just down here on Dyer’s Lane.’r />
  Rykener led the way past merchants at their tables and boys with carts. A spotted dog trotted ahead of them, seeming to be on his own hurried business. John came to a dyer’s shop and stepped through the door. The place smelled of acrid odors, and every surface seemed to be spattered in one way or another with a color. Crispin peered through a large open archway where apprentices were busy at vats, either stirring them with wooden stirrers the size of spades, or carrying bolts of muslins and wool.

  A man carrying a burden of bolts backed out of a storage room and called over his shoulder, ‘I shall attend to you shortly, Madam and Good Sir.’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said John in his softened voice.

  The man whirled, his bolts flying out of his hands. Wide eyes raked over John, and the man’s suddenly blushing face took in Crispin as well. ‘Good Christ!’ he hissed. His head jerked over his shoulder, searching out his apprentices who were still busy in the other room. ‘Christ Almighty, John! I told you I’d meet you!’ he whispered, looking John up and down. ‘You could have at least changed your clothes …’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling him,’ said Crispin. ‘This is urgent, sir. Can we talk now?’

  ‘Now?’ He winced, thinking, until he noticed his cloth scattered upon the floor. ‘Curse you, John Rykener.’ He bent to pick up the bolts.

  ‘That’s not what you said yesterday,’ said John, stooping to help him.

  The now sweating man cast a guilty glance at Crispin. ‘For God’s sake, John. Your friend …’

  ‘Knows well who John Rykener is,’ said Crispin. ‘Come, man. Put your cloth away and come now to talk. Please.’

  The man nodded and collected his bundles from John. He stuffed them on a shelf and grabbed his cloak from a peg by the door. ‘I’m going out!’ he called loudly to the back.

  If his apprentices heard, they did not signal such, but only continued their vigorous work with the dying vats.

  The dyer shoved John toward the door, frowning. Crispin followed. Without another word the man led them to a tavern. Inside was darker and smokier even than the Boar’s Tusk. They trailed through the long tables and found a spot near the back.

  After the tavern keeper brought them a jug of ale and three cracked and chipped beakers, John leaned in. ‘Stephen, this is Crispin Guest. Crispin, my friend, Stephen.’

  Stephen nodded to Crispin, hunched over his cup, and drank a dose.

  ‘Master Stephen, I do not know if John imparted to you the seriousness of my quest, but …’

  ‘I know who you are, Master Guest,’ said the dyer, still hunching low. He was John’s height and lank build, and wore a neatly trimmed brown beard. He cast his eyes about, but there was no one near enough to overhear them. ‘I would not have my association with … with Eleanor, here, get around. Get my meaning?’

  ‘I have no wish to divulge such information, Master Stephen.’

  John rested his chin on his hand and watched the two of them silently. Occasionally he lifted his beaker to his lips, took a sip, and set the beaker down again.

  Crispin encircled his beaker with his fingers but did not drink. ‘I was given to understand that you were a gonner, Master Stephen.’

  Stephen wrung his hands. ‘I am. That is my brother’s dying shop, and I assist him when I can. It is the family business. And I have not been required by his majesty’s army for some weeks. When we are near London again, sometimes we are housed with the garrison at Westminster and sometimes we are allowed to go back to our businesses.’

  ‘I see. But as you know, I was wondering about explosive powder.’

  ‘Yes, so John, er, Eleanor said.’ He licked his lips. ‘There is a man who makes the stuff, as far as I can tell. He makes it for the king’s army, but I happen to know he sells some on the sly as well.’

  ‘And how do you know?’

  ‘Because he asked us gonners if we wanted to buy our own. You see, some of us are not men of business. Some are men of opportunity, so to speak. Mercenaries. I can well see how such a thing can prove beneficial if, say, one were to try to break into a rich man’s house. You can blow up a wall if you are skillful.’

  ‘Indeed. Will you tell me who and where this man is?’

  He glanced at John, and almost imperceptibly, John nodded. ‘Well, yes. I can tell you. Or show you, if I must.’

  ‘It is much appreciated, Master Stephen.’

  ‘Anything to get you out of my hair,’ he muttered.

  Rykener, who was sitting across from the man, slipped from his bench, shot around the table, and scooted in next to Stephen. ‘And do you want me out of your hair as well, Stephen?’ he whispered.

  All wide eyes again, Stephen took in Crispin before he cringed and lifted his red-faced gaze to John. ‘You know I don’t,’ he said quietly.

  John grinned from ear to ear. ‘Neither do I want the same.’

  Crispin coughed lightly. ‘Gentlemen?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said John with a laugh. He moved away from Stephen and grabbed his cup still sitting across the table. ‘We’re making moon eyes at each other in front of the Tracker. What will he think of us? And he has much important work to do. Stephen, will you tell him where he can find the man he seeks?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He explained to Crispin that the man could be found on Trinity and Le Reol. A shop without distinguishing signs or marks, between a tyler and a pavior.

  ‘Much thanks,’ said Crispin, leaving coins on the table. He rose and, with a nod to the men, headed toward the door. He was almost outside when someone grabbed his arm.

  ‘You’re not leaving without me, are you?’ said John.

  Crispin glanced back to the wary dyer, clutching his beaker, eyes darting about the room. ‘I had every intention to do just that.’

  ‘But I am going with you.’

  ‘No.’ Crispin grasped John’s wrist and yanked it from his arm. ‘You are not.’ He pushed open the door and stepped outside. His destination was beyond St Paul’s, mid-city. He set out again when John trotted to head him off. Walking backward in front of him, John pouted.

  ‘But Crispin, I’m the one who got you the information.’

  ‘And I thank you for it.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘You can help by staying out of the way.’ He used his arm to nudge John aside none too gently.

  ‘But, Crispin! I can be useful.’ He slid in close up against him and wrapped his hands around his arm. ‘So you said last night.’ He said it purposely loud enough so that those standing close by turned to look, eyes assessing both Crispin and Rykener.

  Crispin gritted his teeth. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said under his breath.

  Rykener squeezed his arm and smiled into his face. ‘No, you’re not,’ he purred.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he hissed. He looked around and sighed. ‘Very well … but let go of me.’

  Rykener carefully unwound his hands and strode happily alongside Crispin, who glowered whenever anyone looked his way.

  They cut down Old Fish Street that became Trinity. Crispin raised his head to look at the signs. A basket maker, a wheelwright, a chand-ler … finally a tyler and there the pavior, and in between no sign at all. Crispin stopped and studied the plain door. ‘This must be it.’

  ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  Crispin gave him a withering look. ‘It’s nothing of the kind. Now wait here.’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, John, please be quiet.’

  Rykener nodded, but the light leaping in his eyes gave Crispin enough reason to worry. He knocked on the door anyway. They waited until a bolt was thrown back and the door creaked open. A man with a bluntly sculpted face peered at them from the gloom. ‘Well then?’ he asked in a roughened voice.

  Crispin bowed slightly. ‘Are you the man who makes explosive powder?’

  The man sucked on his teeth. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I am Crispin Guest, sir. I am also known in London
as the Tracker.’

  The man’s eyes widened. ‘What … what do you want with me?’

  ‘I would speak with you on a matter of some urgency.’

  The man scowled and looked down at his feet. At last, and with a reluctant shake of his head, he pulled the door open wider and stepped aside. ‘In, then.’

  Crispin walked through and John followed. The man eyed Rykener but closed the door after them and bolted it for good measure.

  The place was dark and close and had the unpleasant odor of sulfur permeating its timbers.

  John stumbled against a stool and scoffed. ‘Can you not light a candle, man?’

  ‘No, I can’t. There is great danger in candle flames and my work.’ He eyed John most peculiarly. Crispin thought he knew why. In his clumsiness, John had neglected to use his ‘Eleanor’ voice.

  ‘At least open a window,’ said John, more softly this time.

  The man stomped to the window and pushed open the shutter, letting in light and a fresh gust of air. ‘Better? Now what do you want?’

  ‘I have it on authority,’ said Crispin, ‘that you are in the habit of selling your explosive powder to individuals.’

  ‘What of it? It isn’t against the law.’

  Crispin stood taller than the man and made certain to make a point of looking down at him. ‘No, it isn’t against the law. The letter of the law, that is.’

  ‘You make little sense. State your business or be on your way.’

  ‘Let’s not be hasty. I need to know if you have sold any of this powder to any northerners of late.’

  ‘Northerners?’ He scratched his jaw where a weedy beard shadowed his chin. ‘Yes, come to think of it. There was a group of northerners just a sennight ago. They paid good English coin for it, so I explained how to use it and they were on their way. They only bought a small amount.’

  ‘Did they say what it was for?’

  ‘No. They paid their money. What did I care?’

  Crispin ticked his head. ‘A man should take better care of his soul, sir. The man who does not rejoice in noble actions is not good. Little did you know what mischief would come of their purchase.’

  ‘I can’t be the conscience of every man.’ He strode to the door and threw the bolt. ‘I told you what you wanted to know. Now I must be back to my work.’