The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  While the monk hurried away to comply, Crispin climbed the ladder to the top of the cistern and looked down into the dark water. He could see nothing in its depths. It had better be here. I haven’t any more ideas.

  And then there was Eleanor. This was not the work of McGuffin, whom he was convinced meant no harm. Though, apparently, that had not extended to Richard and the queen. That left Deargh or Findlaich. But he was inclined to consider Deargh. He was the fiercest of the lot, after all. Crispin had already fought with him. Whoever it was, he vowed to make them pay. How had they captured her? Had they injured Gilbert? No one hurt a member of his family, and all on the Shambles fell into that category … except, perhaps, for Alice Kemp.

  And then there were still the sheriffs. Tell them or not?

  It wasn’t long until Brother Thomas returned with a workman carrying a long pike. ‘The gardener,’ he explained, urging the man up the steps toward Crispin. ‘He uses it for dredging the stewpond, so he says.’

  Crispin said nothing as the man bowed his head to him and set about his business of dunking its hooked end into the water. He swilled it around. Crispin licked his lips, becoming concerned when the man seemed to encounter nothing out of the ordinary. Until it snagged on … something.

  ‘Something there,’ said the man gruffly.

  ‘Let me help you.’ Crispin grabbed hold of the end of the pike but, try as they might, they could not budge whatever was down there.

  ‘It will be too heavy to lift with this pike,’ said Crispin. He thought a moment before he began unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his cotehardie.

  ‘Master Crispin,’ said the abbot in a scandalized tone. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Someone has to go into the cistern, Lord Abbot,’ he said, peeling first his hood then his coat from his shoulders and dropping them to the platform. He untied his stockings from his braies next, letting them sag around his ankles before he hopped on one foot to divest first one and then the other of his boots and stockings together. He untied the laces of his shirt and pulled it off over his head and stood in nothing but his braies. ‘A boost would be most helpful, good master,’ he said to the workman. He shivered slightly in the cold air but knew the water would be colder.

  The man interlaced his fingers and lowered them to his thigh, balancing himself against the side of the cistern. Crispin clasped the man’s shoulders and stuck his foot in the step he made with his hands and swung himself up until he straddled the top edge of the cistern. ‘Here I go.’ He plunged in. The cold water snatched his breath, clenched his muscles.

  He surfaced and bobbed in the water a moment, getting used to the temperature. It wasn’t so deep that his feet could not touch the bottom. He took one deep breath and dropped below the surface again.

  Once the murk of the top layer of water dissipated and he accustomed himself to the lower light level, he looked at the bottom of the cistern and swam toward a dark shape. There. A square block on whose iron rings the pike had caught itself. Crispin ran his hands over its rough surface just to verify that he was seeing what was truly there. A sensation of deep relief and satisfaction washed over him. He pushed off from it toward the light from above and his head broke the surface. He gasped as the cold air hit his head. Wet hair plastered to his scalp.

  Thomas peered over the side at him. ‘Well, Master Guest?’

  ‘It is there,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We will need ropes and some strong men to wrestle it out.’

  ‘Let me help you out of there, Master Guest.’

  ‘No, I am already wet. I can help.’

  ‘But look. You are shivering. How would it be if you should drown once you had succeeded in your quest?’

  Another monk had rushed up the stairs with a flannel and even though he protested, Crispin was pulled from the water and wrapped in the cloth.

  The normally stoic abbot wore a grin. It seemed to score his face in unaccustomed creases. ‘Well done, Master Guest! Come away. There is no need to freeze to death. We have some hearty servants who are adequate to the job.’

  The man on the platform raised his brows, rolled his eyes, and reluctantly began disrobing.

  Crispin stepped aside as more servants approached, eyeing him strangely. Ropes, pulleys, and iron hooks were gathered and carried up the stairs by several burly workmen, and set to the task as Thomas instructed.

  Crispin tossed the cloth over his wet head and dressed quickly, helped by John Rykener who was smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘You are a true hero, Master Guest,’ he said quietly, helping Crispin slip into his cotehardie and assisting him to button it up.

  ‘Be still, John,’ he muttered. ‘There is still the matter of Eleanor.’

  John sobered. ‘Oh dear! What are we to do?’

  ‘My Lord Abbot.’ He turned toward the monk below the platform. ‘I must speak with you on a matter most urgent.’

  ‘Anything, Master Guest,’ he said in a jovial tenor. It seemed Crispin could now do no wrong in the abbot’s eyes.

  Crispin finished dressing and slung the flannel over his shoulders. He descended the stairs to join the abbot on the stone path. ‘May we talk in your lodgings?’ He watched the first workman gingerly lower himself into the water and the others gather around the top of the cistern with their secured ropes and pulleys. ‘My Lord Abbot, might I ask that you not send word quite yet to the palace about the Stone?’

  ‘Whatever for, Master Guest? Surely you are anxious to free your servant from his incarceration?’

  ‘I am, but … we need to talk in private.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ He left Brother Thomas to supervise the raising of the Stone and walked with taut strides back through the cloister toward his lodgings.

  Crispin turned to Rykener. ‘I need you to get a message to Jack Tucker.’

  ‘Anything you like, Crispin. But how am I to do that?’

  ‘He is in the care of the earl of Derby at the palace. Plead to get the message personally to Jack.’

  ‘I will do as you say. What is the message?’

  Crispin told him and John nodded. ‘Here. You might need this.’ He handed Crispin the ransom note. Crispin took it with quiet thanks and left John to follow the abbot.

  Brother John Sandon was there at the abbot’s lodgings to greet him with a stiff bow. He did not seem surprised to see Crispin, only that Crispin was still drying his hair with a cloth that he soon surrendered to the young monk.

  The abbot ushered Crispin to the fire, for which he was grateful. He stood with his back to it, nearly sighing from the comfortable warmth.

  ‘I must congratulate you Master Guest … Crispin … if I may be so bold as to call you so.’ The abbot turned away for a moment before facing Crispin again. His cheek was flushed. ‘I feel I must apologize. We … did not get off on the right foot when first we met.’

  ‘You did not know me, Abbot William. I am … not an easy man to know.’

  ‘And yet our dear departed Abbot Nicholas assured me of your constancy. Unfortunately, I was often away from the abbey, traveling on Church business. And I, alas, was suspicious of you and your dubious past. You see, he was an old man, and old men are likely to indulge themselves in fancies. After all, you were a … that is to say, you were not a friend to the king.’

  ‘No,’ he said drily. ‘Not a friend. But now a loyal subject. For these past twelve years. But as you saw, it isn’t an easy thing.’

  ‘Yes.’ The abbot stood for a moment before he went to the sideboard, pouring two goblets of wine. He returned to the fire with them and offered one to Crispin.

  Surprised that the abbot himself would serve him, he took it without a word and sipped the Flemish wine, basking in the sensation of warmth flowing through his chest and belly.

  ‘I understand you play chess, Master Crispin?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Perhaps … you would be so good as to indulge me sometime in a game. I remembered that you played with Abbot Nicholas.’

>   A bequeathed chess set which you reluctantly surrendered to me, he mused. ‘I would be honored,’ he said aloud, and bowed.

  ‘And now.’ The abbot sipped his wine and faced Crispin. They both stood at the fire as if they were equals. ‘You wished to speak to me …’

  ‘As I said. It is a matter of some urgency. There is this, you see.’ He unfolded the ransom note and handed it to the abbot. The monk read it, brows arching.

  ‘This is outrageous. Who is this Eleanor?’

  ‘A friend. A very dear one. This man is very dangerous. I have no doubts that he will carry out his threats. I need to send some messages. And I also need to ask a favor of you, my lord.’

  The abbot, usually composed, looked suddenly aghast. But when he saw Crispin smile, the abbot seemed to find his composure again.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jack watched the sun set from the little window high overhead and, with it, all his hopes. Master Crispin had sent no word. No servant had come to give him tidings. It crashed in on him that he was utterly alone, and any fear that he had shuffled away while busy helping the queen now rushed back like a team of stampeding horses loosed from their reins.

  Had his master abandoned him in his hour of need? But that wasn’t like Master Crispin at all. Had something happened to him? That was even worse! Those evil men could have harmed him, and Jack wasn’t there to rescue his master as he had done many times before …

  He jumped when a key grated in the lock. Holy Virgin! They were coming for him. Should he fight? He looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing but a stool and a few sticks for the fire. He had his knife, but he’d only wound before they clapped him in chains. And would his master even wish for him to fight? Wouldn’t he rather Jack saw to his fate with dignity, like a man?

  He swallowed hard. Dignity was the last thing on his mind.

  But as he stood back, hands clenched, and watched the door open, he tried – with a deep breath – to muster the strength to keep his chin high.

  Hugh Waterton unlocked the door and, with an unreadable expression, said, ‘You are to come with me.’

  ‘Has … has there been word?’

  Waterton clenched his jaw. ‘You are to come with me.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jack breathed. He becrossed himself and slowly walked forward. He measured Waterton’s iron expression as he passed him, but there was no hope in his eyes.

  He followed the chamberlain to the main parlor and his heart battered his chest once he caught sight of both Derby and Lady Katherine.

  I’m doomed. They’ve come to see me off.

  He fell to his knees and folded his hands into a prayer. ‘Lord Derby, Lady Katherine. I must beg your forgiveness for vexing you these past few days. I wish to confess to all here before God, that you have both been gracious and kind to me. May God and the Holy Virgin keep you and watch over you.’

  ‘Arise, Master Tucker,’ said Lady Katherine. Her face was as solemn as he had ever seen it.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘Has there been any word, Lady Katherine?’

  She glanced once at Henry, but his face was as stoic as a stone. ‘We have heard nothing, Master Tucker.’

  ‘The king has summoned you,’ said Lord Henry. ‘It is best we go.’

  ‘Oh. Then … then it is all done.’

  Lady Katherine laid her hand on his arm. ‘There is still reason to hope, Master Tucker.’

  ‘But … if my master has not come …’

  She looked away, her cheek growing pale.

  Doomed, he groaned inwardly.

  The procession was quiet and somber. Henry and his retinue led, followed by Lady Katherine and her attendants, while Jack brought up the rear, with pages serving as guards. It was a long walk through the corridors to the Great Hall. Jack kept licking his lips. His throat had gone dry and his limbs quivered.

  Dignity, Jack. Master Crispin would expect it. He tried to hold his arms close to his body so that they wouldn’t tremble, but it wasn’t working. Would Master Crispin be there at the gibbet, he wondered. It would be nice to see a friendly face. He supposed if it were at Tyburn or Tower Hill he’d be allowed to come just like anyone else.

  Oh God! The whole of London would see it. He’d be dangling there, legs flailing, bowels loosening all over the gibbet. Hadn’t he seen enough hangings to know?

  He couldn’t help the sob that climbed out of his throat, nor the tears that blurred his eyes.

  The corridors seemed to go on forever, and his feet felt heavier and heavier. The king wouldn’t demand it right now, would he? Jack wanted to say his farewells and thanks to Master Crispin, to be sure. But King Richard was a sorry young man and spiteful. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the king to do so without Master Crispin being present.

  Ah, but he knew he mustn’t have these thoughts now. He needed to keep his mind on charity and praying … but he couldn’t seem to. His thoughts were focused on death and humiliation, and how lost Master Crispin would be without him. He can’t manage it on his own. What will he do?

  At last the procession passed through the archway, and Jack could see that King Richard was holding court there. Richard was talking to a courtier sitting beside him, but he still seemed to notice when Henry Bolingbroke appeared. His face was aimed toward his courtier but his eyes followed Henry hungrily, with simmering emotion just below the surface. And though Richard’s face showed to the world how he praised family and familial alliances above all, he could not seem to forgive his cousin’s part in his own humiliation.

  Or so Master Crispin had said.

  The queen, demure and quiet beside her husband, was resplendent in a gown the colors of the king’s quartered arms. Perhaps in defiance of her extortionists, she wore proudly that which should have been plain on that accursed brooch.

  ‘Lo!’ said Richard, and the crowd quieted. ‘My cousin is here at last.’

  Henry bowed low to Richard on his throne set up on a dais. ‘Sire. I am sorry for any delay.’

  ‘No need to apologize, cuz. I was assured of your imminent arrival. And so.’ His eyes dismissed Henry, and, sullen that he had been discharged, Henry frowned and found his place at the foot of the dais, trying to look as if he was supposed to be there. But the bronzing of his cheeks told another tale.

  Richard scanned the immense room. Fires in iron cages spaced along the floor warmed the courtiers, and the many chandlers and coronas glistened with flickering candles. ‘We are gathered here tonight because I had charged the traitor Crispin Guest with finding the stolen Stone of Destiny.’

  The room fell to absolute silence. Not a gown rustled. No banner on its pole dared creak.

  Richard swallowed. ‘Yes, the very same Stone of Destiny that belongs housed in my great-great-grandfather’s Coronation Chair, stolen by vile rebels. Meant to humiliate England. And as England itself.’ He gestured to his breast. ‘We bear the burden of its shame.’ He lifted his bearded chin to look about the room. ‘And where is Crispin Guest? Has anyone laid eyes on him? Where is the Stone?’

  Heads turned, but no one acknowledged that they knew anything.

  The king drummed his fingers on his chair’s arm, rings sparkling. ‘No Crispin Guest?’ He buried his smirk in his clenched jaw. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Your grace.’

  Jack gasped as Lady Katherine stepped forward and curtseyed.

  Richard stared at her. Plainly she made him uncomfortable.

  ‘I know that it was your desire to receive the Stone back before the Commons met in Cambridge, and your majesty, perhaps, believes that such a thing would bring dishonor to England. But we, your subjects’ – she swept her arm, encompassing all present – ‘know that your grace is not dishonored when a thief comes to the door. It is very like a man who is burgled. The master of the house sends his minions to go after the thief, cut him down, and return the goods. Yet this takes time. More than a brief few days. And so, might your majesty afford Master Guest more time to find the thieves and return the goods? It
is a delicate thing, dealing with spies and rebels.’

  The king leaned back in his chair, eyes hooded. ‘Madam, do you suggest we forswear ourselves?’

  ‘Not in the least, your grace.’

  ‘And yet you would, Madam. For I have sworn that if Master Guest did not return the Stone at the appointed time … now … that the life of his traitorous apprentice was forfeit. And just where is my prisoner?’

  It wasn’t Derby’s pages that pushed through the crowd and manhandled Jack forward, but the king’s guards. And one was that Yorkshire man, who gritted his teeth and swore softly through them so that only Jack could hear his threats.

  They shoved him forth and he fell onto his knees. When he dared look up, he glanced quickly toward the queen. Her hand trembled over her mouth. He was her ‘Goat’ no longer, but the prisoner Jack Tucker. Her eyes filled with all the confusion she could not express aloud. And seeing that, Jack lowered his face with the burden of guilt slicing through his heart. He had not told her who he was, and for that, too, he would pay.

  Richard toyed with the laces on his tunic, looking at them instead of Jack. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  Jack swallowed, took a breath, then another. ‘Sire … my n-name is Jack Tucker.’

  ‘Tucker. And how does it feel to know that your master has deserted you?’

  He looked toward Henry, but the earl’s face was blank. ‘He hasn’t. I know he hasn’t, your grace.’

  ‘Loyal to the last, are you? I suppose traitors stick together.’

  ‘I am no traitor, your majesty.’

  Like a leopard, Richard launched from his seat to crouch over Jack at the edge of the dais. ‘You are a traitor if I say you are, knave. And I see you are just as stubborn as Guest and just as arrogant.’

  Jack cringed back, mouth firmly shut. Nothing could be gained by naysaying the king in his court, after all. And yet, if he were about to die, wasn’t this the time to be brutally honest?

  He screwed up his courage. ‘I am not a traitor, your grace. And though my master was at one time, he is no longer. You will find no more loyal subject and servant than Crispin Guest. And I will always be proud to say that I served him. To my last hour.’ Which was now, he supposed.