‘The Keys. And whom do I ask for? Rebels?’
‘Och no. Give your name. They’ll know who you are and your purpose.’
Crispin gave him a nod of thanks and passed through the open door.
Once on the street he searched about, trying to get his bearings. Where was he? That damned bird had led him there from Westminster Abbey. He glanced above the rooftops and reckoned in which direction the Strand lay. It was a main thoroughfare between London and Westminster. There. That was the direction. He took a few steps, looked back at the strange hovel, and moved forward. Domhnall was a tough old bird – as tough as the birds he trained. And Crispin knew he was as good as his word.
The streets were bustling. Men and women shopkeepers busied themselves, dusting off their wares. Young apprentices hurried, carrying wooden pails of water, or fetching bundled sticks for fuel. Dogs followed the boys, either chasing them in fun, or looking for scraps. A beggar or two stalked in the shadows. Westminster was very much like London in most respects.
He made it to the Strand. In one direction lay Charing Cross and the palace. In the other was this alehouse. He set off east, looking for the ale stake and the sign of the keys.
The road was full of carts, those being pulled by people and many more being pulled by donkeys or oxen. Days were always busy along the hectic thoroughfare. Crispin found himself walking behind a man holding up a rack of roasted meats, and when the scent of them reached him, he realized he couldn’t recall the last time he ate. He leaned forward to tap the man on the shoulder when a hand closed over his arm.
He whirled about, hand on his knife hilt. A man with a heavy swath of fur at the shoulders of his cloak smiled affably at Crispin. ‘You are Crispin Guest,’ he said in a northern dialect.
‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘The answer to a prayer, no doubt. Consider this your lucky day, meeting me.’
Crispin took a step back and studied the proud man skeptically. He was tall, broad-shouldered – though it could have mostly been fur – with a ruddy complexion and hair, and too confident an air about him. ‘I ask again, who are you?’
‘The name’s McGuffin. And I have a feeling you’ll want to be talking to me.’
‘Do you? As soon as my business with this other is concluded, then we’ll talk.’ Crispin gave him one last appraisal and turned his back.
The man called after Crispin. ‘Is it the Stone you’re after?’
Slowly, Crispin turned.
McGuffin smiled and rocked on his heels. ‘I have food and drink, too. Come.’ He gestured and turned back toward Westminster.
Crispin looked up the street to what he thought was an ale stake, and then back to where the tall Scotsman was stalking up the street. With a weary sigh he strode forward, following the Scot.
FIVE
Jack Tucker stared mournfully at the door that shut him in the dark little room. He was inside the palace, this he knew, for there was many a time he and Master Crispin had crossed that forbidden threshold, sometimes on their own, stealthily, and sometimes with the help of the duke of Lancaster or his son Henry of Derby. He well remembered the long corridors and winding stairs. But he had no idea where exactly he was this time. All he knew was the meager hearth, the tiny window that he could not climb out of, and the barred door, with its great iron hinges that could not be undone.
‘You’re in for it now, Jack Tucker, and that’s a certainty.’ But he was also certain that Master Crispin would succeed. In time. He hoped. The man had never failed before. Well … seldom.
Would Richard really do it? Would he truly execute him for Master Crispin’s failure? He gnawed on a fingernail and paced the short length of the room again, tugging his cloak tightly over his shoulders for warmth. No one had seen fit to bring him food, and he was hungry! But the hollowness in him warred with the feeling of butterflies and fear that ate at his gut. Had he been forgotten already? Would there be anything left to find once Master Crispin accomplished his task?
Jack equally prayed for his deliverance and cursed Richard’s foolishness. Master Crispin would have investigated had Richard only asked. ‘Slud!’ He probably would have investigated anyway since it was in his nature that he could not leave a mystery alone.
Where was the sarding Stone? If it was Scottish rebels – and who else would it be? – then they could be over the border by now. And where would that leave him?
He shivered. ‘Dead, that’s what,’ he whispered.
‘Boy!’
Jack stared at the door. Someone had hissed at him through the wood. He stepped closer. The voice again. ‘Boy! Are you in there?’
‘Er … aye. Aye, I am. W-who are you?’
A key scraped in the lock, and the door whinged open. Too late Jack thought to ambush the guard. He was forced back away from the door instead and looked up to see … a lady of middle years.
Gowned in finery from the fox fur on her collar to the long drape of her embroidered skirts, she stood on the threshold, a lantern in her hand. Her small mouth was pursed, and her hazel eyes appraised him critically.
It took Jack far too long to remember his courtesy, and he bowed to her. ‘My lady,’ he squeaked.
‘You are Crispin Guest’s boy?’
‘I am his apprentice, my lady. Jack Tucker.’
She smiled. The apple of her pale cheeks pinked. ‘Jack Tucker is a fine name.’
He straightened. He liked her immediately.
Her smile vanished as she glanced back over her shoulder. Jack could see that she was alone, and even he knew a lady in the palace unescorted by a lady’s maid was not a good and proper thing. ‘We must hurry. I have permission to take you to, er, better lodgings. But I wish to avoid any difficulties.’
Jack looked back into the dank room, with its open window letting in the damp, its meager fire, already sputtering and likely to go out. But where was she taking him? Could he trust her? Did he have a choice?
He girded himself, nodded, and walked out. She closed and locked the door after him, tucking the key into the scrip at her belt.
‘Come with me,’ she said sharply, ‘and don’t tarry.’
Jack followed meekly. They climbed stairs from the undercroft to a dark corridor, lit only occasionally by oil lamps in wall niches. Not a well-used corridor, then. Little wonder he had been forgotten. He supposed it could have been worse. He could have been in a dungeon cell as he had been in Newgate, not nearly as clean or warm as the room he had just relinquished, and that was saying something.
He looked over her skirts, her veil. It was all he could see of her from behind. She was tall and stately, that was all he knew, for he longed to ask who she was but knew he had no right to do so.
The corridors brightened with more candles and oil lamps. She led him to some apartments that seemed familiar. Were these close to Lancaster’s rooms? And the king’s? Richard wouldn’t like that. Jack ducked his head and looked around carefully, as if expecting the king to leap from the shadows.
She took a key from her scrip, fit it in the lock, and opened the door. A maid rushed to greet her.
‘My lady! What—’ And then she saw Jack and frowned. ‘Who is this?’
‘He is … our guest. Please lay the fire in the squire’s room.’
She bowed to her lady and hurried to fetch a servant for the task. The lady blew out the candle in the lantern and set it on a table. She moved past an archway toward the hearth, whose warmth Jack could feel from the antechamber. She warmed her hands before the fire and finally turned her head toward Jack. ‘Have you eaten, Master Tucker?’
His face reddened when his stomach did the answering in a loud grumble. He shook his head. ‘No, my lady. I have not. Not since yesterday.’
‘By Saint Katherine,’ she sighed. ‘Then you are quite lucky I found you when I did. Oh, Mylisant,’ she said, as the maid returned. ‘Please fetch Master Tucker here some victuals. Boys are always hungry, are they not?’
Mylisant hastened to comply and hu
rried past Jack before disappearing out the door.
‘Come, come, Master Tucker. There’s no need to stay out there. Come closer to the fire while we wait for food. Would you have wine?’
Jack crumpled the hem of his coat in his fingers before realizing he was doing it and let it go. He stepped haltingly through the arch. ‘I … I …’
‘Do pour us both some wine, Master Tucker. Just there.’ She gestured to a sideboard where sat a flagon and several goblets made of silver.
Jack took a breath and walked with more purpose to the carved sideboard. By the rustling of cloth behind him, he reckoned that the lady must have taken a seat.
He grasped the flagon in his trembling hand. Closing his eyes, he composed himself. You can do this, Jack. You’ve done it many times for Master Crispin’s guests. He opened his eyes again, poured the amber wine into the goblets – making certain he only poured himself a little – and brought them both to the fire. He bowed as he handed it to the lady.
‘Thank you, Master Tucker. My, Crispin has taught you well. Where did you come from? Where did Crispin find you?’
Jack rocked on the balls of his feet. He held the goblet but did not drink, not until she took her first sip. It was only after he drank a little that he realized how dry his mouth had become. It was fine wine, far better fare than could be gotten at the Boar’s Tusk. He cleared his throat. ‘Master Crispin … he, uh, found me. On the streets. I, er …’ He lowered his face. ‘I was a lowly thief, my lady.’
‘Dear me.’ She looked at him anew from over the rim of her goblet.
‘Aye.’ He changed his weight from one foot to the other. ‘But I don’t do that no more … anymore,’ he added, screwing up his face in concentration. ‘Master Crispin, he taught me to read and write. I am accomplished in Latin, French, and a bit of Greek, though the latter still don’t make much sense to me.’
Her eyes glittered as she drank. ‘I’ve always had trouble with languages myself.’
Jack blinked. He never imagined that the nobility had trouble with anything. ‘And he’s been teaching me arms practice,’ he went on. ‘I can use a sword!’ He smiled, but it was short-lived. ‘Master Crispin only has the one. His was taken away some years ago … as you probably know. But he wears a sword again, my lady, given to him by Lord Derby! It was a fine thing when he done that, my lady. My master. He deserved it. He was loyal to the house of Lancaster. And to England … and its king.’ He said the last sourly. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t adept at hiding his feelings behind subtlety, not like others he knew. Not like that cool and detached Abbot of Westminster Abbey.
‘Of that I have no doubt,’ she said quietly.
She continued to study Jack. He took a few sips of his wine while his eyes traversed the room, spying heavy curtains, a painted wall of a garden scene, the sideboard, a coffer, a small table, a tapestry, another two chairs, and by one of them, an embroidery stand with a cloth stretched across it with threads in many colors hanging free below it. Behind it stood three doors, probably leading to more antechambers and bed chambers.
‘I wonder, Master Tucker, if you know who I am.’
Jack clutched the goblet between his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not. I would remember you in my prayers.’
‘I am Lady Katherine. I used to be the governess in the duke of Lancaster’s household.’
Jack rattled the name around in his head, trying to figure out if Crispin had mentioned her before. When it struck him of a sudden. ‘Lady Katherine Swynford?’ he muttered. Of course! Lancaster’s longtime mistress. No wonder the rooms were familiar. They were next to Lancaster’s apartments. And he well recalled what Master Crispin had said of the lady, how he disapproved of such conduct from his mentor. Jack was set to disapprove of her as well, except … Except that the lady had rescued him, or at least, removed him to a place where the waiting would be more comfortable. And he couldn’t find it in his heart to disapprove at all. It would be like condemning the Madonna herself.
The lady seemed to have seen Jack’s dilemma on his face. ‘I see. Crispin has told you about me.’
‘He … he …’
‘I can imagine what he said.’ She sighed and set her goblet aside. Jack felt awkward, standing, his empty goblet still clutched in his hand against his chest. ‘He never approved of me and his grace. Well, to be honest, I never would have approved of such a thing myself. But love is … what it is.’
‘Aye, my lady.’
She touched a ring on one of her fingers fondly before studying Jack anew. ‘Have you found love yet, my young friend?’
He stared at the floor. ‘Ah, me? No, my lady. It’s a rough life on the Shambles. My master taught me to be wary.’
‘The Shambles,’ she repeated softly.
‘Aye, my lady. That is where we reside. In the shadow of St Paul’s.’
‘I see.’
Jack spun the goblet’s stem in his fingers before stepping toward the sideboard and setting it down. He stared down at the cupboard, at its intricate carvings of vines and grapes. ‘What’s to become of me? The king. He said … he said …’
‘How did you ever get into this predicament, Master Tucker?’
He shook his head. ‘Damned if I know,’ he muttered, and then looked up, aghast. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, my lady!’
She smiled. ‘There’s no need. I’ve raised four sons, you know. Their language can be very … colorful.’
‘But there’s no call for me to be more lowly than I already am. Master Crispin would be ashamed.’
‘And that matters to you?’
‘Oh, aye!’ He rushed toward her and knelt on one knee. ‘I’d never have him ashamed of me, my lady, or have cause for him to be shamed. He’s had enough, hasn’t he?’
‘I daresay he has. Despite what he has felt for me, I have always been charmed by Crispin. Let me think. Yes, I met him when he was … well, about your age.’
Jack smiled and rose. ‘Truly?’ He edged closer. ‘What was he like back then?’
She settled on her seat. ‘Well, he was quite a serious boy. I suppose losing a mother at such a young age as he did might make one serious. His father was often absent, but a mother and a mother’s love … well. And he quite understood the responsibility awaiting him; his lands, his title. Servants and tenants. But it wasn’t all serious brooding. He laughed, too. And played. With Lancaster’s sons and … mine. He was talented with dance and song—’
‘Master Crispin?’
‘Yes, of course. He was quite accomplished in courtly ways. But nothing could quite divert him from his arms practice and horsemanship. He was a sight to behold on the lists.’
‘Aye. I saw him myself.’
‘Did you? How is that possible, Master Tucker? I do not think you could have seen him, for that was longer ago than you were born.’
‘Oh, er …’ Jack realized his mistake too late. Only a handful of people were to know about that particular incident of three years ago. His foolish loose tongue!
‘Never mind,’ she said kindly. ‘But I was diverted. I was asking about you.’
‘Oh.’ He dusted off the knee of his stockings. ‘Well … his majesty isn’t fond of my master …’ He looked back at her and her raised brow. Of course she would know that. All of court knew that. ‘And at the Mass for the Holy Virgin this morning, the Stone of Destiny was stolen.’
‘Yes.’ Her solemn expression told him she knew this, too. Did not all of London and Westminster know of it by now?
‘And the king, knowing my master’s occupation, exhorted him to find it. And as surety, he – the king, that is – kept me as hostage. And worse.’ He swallowed. Fear crept up his throat again. ‘If my master fails to accomplish it before Parliament convenes in three days, I’m … I’m to die. As a traitor. But, my lady, I’m no traitor! I never said naught against the king. And Master Crispin, he done naught, too. If only the king would see reason. Master Crispin would have felt honor bound to undertake the search. The kin
g didn’t have to … have to …’
Shameful, hot tears coursed down his face. What sort of man was he to weep in front of this woman? He turned away to hide it, but she was suddenly there beside him, and in the next instant, her arms enclosed him, and he found himself weeping into her samite gown.
Ah the feel of it! Her soft arms encircling him, the pleasant scent of her, like a garland of flowers, and her tender cooing. The sensations came from long ago, of his own mother’s arms, and he wept that much more for thoughts of her.
Finally, he pushed himself away and smeared his hand over his face. ‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he said roughly. ‘I have every faith in Master Crispin’s abilities. Indeed, I have been his servant now for nigh on five years, and he seems to work miracles. But I have never been in such a position before. It … it doesn’t seem right.’
‘Dear Master Tucker. Of course it isn’t. But his majesty … has a troubled association with your master, I’m afraid.’
‘Aye. That’s saying a mouthful.’ He blinked away the wet of his lashes. ‘But what of you, my lady? Will you not get into trouble for helping me? I wouldn’t want that heaped upon my sins.’
‘You mustn’t vex yourself over that, Master Tucker. I can look after myself. But I couldn’t leave you in that awful place. No matter what the king says.’
He shook his head and leaned against the sideboard. ‘Oh, it’s a sore thing. The Stone gone missing. My poor master. How will he ever find it? It might be long gone by now.’
‘It might be.’ She stood beside him. ‘Surely you know how Crispin does his “tracking.” What would you do?’
Yes, concentrate on that. Then the other fears could be swept aside for now. ‘Well, it was a curious thing it being blowed up like that.’
‘Yes, very curious.’
‘And it wasn’t the Stone at all. It was something made to look like the Stone. To hide the fact that it was already gone.’
‘But if that were true, why call attention to it? Would it not be better to hide the fact that it had gone missing?’
The Silence of Stones Page 4
