The Silence of Stones Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Author’s Afterword

  Glossary

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  THE PLAYSMEN

  THOUGH HEAVEN FALL

  ROSES IN THE TEMPEST

  The Crispin Guest Medieval Noir series

  VEIL OF LIES

  SERPENT IN THE THORNS

  THE DEMON’S PARCHMENT

  TROUBLED BONES

  BLOOD LANCE

  SHADOW OF THE ALCHEMIST

  CUP OF BLOOD

  THE SILENCE OF STONES *

  * available from Severn House

  THE SILENCE OF STONES

  A CRISPIN GUEST MEDIEVAL NOIR

  Jeri Westerson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and 2016 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeri Westerson.

  The right of Jeri Westerson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Westerson, Jeri author.

  The silence of stones. – (A Crispin Guest medieval

  mystery)

  1. Guest, Crispin (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Stone of Scone–Fiction. 3. Great Britain–History–

  Richard II, 1377-1399–Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8562-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-671-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-725-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Craig, my cornerstone.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A huge thank you to my agent Joshua Bilmes for finding Crispin a new home. Thank you also to Severn House for giving it a chance, and to Faith Black Ross for her careful editing and nurturing. Grateful thanks, as always, goes out to my ever-loving and long-suffering husband Craig. There’s a reason he makes his own beer, wine, and mead. And another huge dollop of thanks to my readers who love Crispin and keep me going.

  ONE

  London, 1388

  The columns rose to impossible heights, casting irregular shadows upon the crowded nave of Westminster Abbey. Courtiers stood in the front nearest the rood screen, with the rest of the rabble in the rear. Crispin Guest stood amongst them. Not with the courtiers, as was his birthright, but with the rabble, as was now his curse.

  He glanced at his apprentice, Jack Tucker, a rangy boy and now his match in height, though the lad was only fifteen. Crispin watched him push his ginger locks away from his freckled cheeks, as he had done thousands of times before. The boy’s eyes darted here and there, taking in the garlands and candles, the painted runners and gilded ribs of the vaults. Jack had watched with fascination the triumphal procession that had led them to the church for the Feast of the Holy Virgin’s Nativity, and he seemed just as captivated by the pomp and ceremony of London’s court. Yes, King Richard was there, Crispin noted, far in the front being catered to by the abbot of Westminster himself, William de Colchester. The sheriffs, too, were in attendance, William Venour and Hugh Fastolf, soon to relinquish their service to the men beside them. Crispin presumed the sandy-haired men with thin, pasty faces to be the newly elected sheriffs Adam Carlylle and Thomas Austin, but as to who was which, he hadn’t a clue.

  Crispin found his own gaze roving. The muttered prayers of Abbot William did not reach the rabble in the back, though the songs that came from the monks in the quire did rise and fall, echoing into the shadowy spaces. Candle stands and great coronas filled with beeswax columns lit halos on the floor and over the crowds, but it was still dim in the corners and under the painted pillars.

  Crispin detested crowds. Anything could happen in a mob of people. And glancing at Jack, with the beginnings of red whiskers now prominent on his spotted chin, he knew better than most what a cutpurse could do in such a throng. Being in a church made no difference.

  Still, better safe than sorry, and he put his hand on his scrip and pushed it along his belt until it sat snug and secure against his belly.

  He hadn’t any intention to be in Westminster today. After all, it was two miles from their home in London. And feast day or no, he was seldom in the mood for pompous displays. But Jack was of another stripe. The boy loved the saints and the trappings of their celebrations. A devout boy was Jack. Crispin smiled again, remembering the lad’s pleas. And no local church would do, for he had heard of the splendor of feast days at Westminster Abbey, the king’s church, and he wanted to see it for himself. And besides, he had told Crispin, ‘There will be cakes, master, or so I have heard.’

  And then Jack insisted that if they were to see a procession, then Crispin should strap on his sword. What better occasion, he declared. At the time, Crispin thought it just and acceded to it. But now he wasn’t so sure. He laid his left hand on the hilt, fingers testing the leather and twined wire on the grip. It gave him comfort, but the proximity to the king and his consorts made Crispin uneasy. He acquiesced too often to Jack’s whims, succumbing to vanity. And vanity didn’t belong in a church. Yet his sword was merely an ornament today, just as the courtiers wore their blades. If there was trouble, he couldn’t even draw it. His dagger would be more accessible in such a tightly-packed crowd. Not that he would need it.

  He let out a breath and peered forward between bare-headed men and kerchief-coifed women. King Richard, resplendent in robes of white and t
rimmed in ermine, sat beside his wife, similarly clad. Her hair was encaged in gold netting that sparkled in the candlelight. They both wore crowns.

  Lancaster was still in Spain, trying to win his own crown, but the news was not good on that front, at least that was the rumor Crispin had heard. He hadn’t heard from Lancaster’s son, Henry, for a long while. No sightings, no visits, as was expected. As he had hoped. Henry had no business consorting with Crispin, and the less of that the better, though there was a pang of regret at that thought. He was here, Henry, sitting not too far from his cousin the king. He was seated next to Nottingham. The two were part of a group of lords formed in the last two years to oversee the king, to rid him of his favorites, and to see that justice was done as far as the purse strings were concerned. Richard had promised, at the point of a sword, to be guided by their good counsel, but Crispin was far too suspicious of Richard’s duplicity to completely believe in that.

  Even so, he drank in the sight of Henry. He hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. A stocky youth with auburn hair and a well-trimmed beard. He seemed the opposite in every way to his effete cousin. Crispin had been a household knight in Lancaster’s estates, and he had often taken charge of Henry when the young boy’s governor was unavailable. But Henry wasn’t a boy any longer. He was certainly a man. Definitely Lancaster’s son.

  The scent of incense wafted over the crowd, and Crispin closed his eyes, inhaling. It reminded him of holy things, as it was supposed to, and with the sounds of chanting from the quire and bells being rung, he did feel the presence of God.

  He opened his eyes and spied again the king and his court. When Crispin was a part of court, he had looked forward to such feast days. He used to sit with those others, drinking in the piety and feeling himself privileged to enjoy such a place in the house of the Lord. He hadn’t realized then what vanity it was to believe that he deserved it and that those in the back – where Crispin now stood – were somehow lesser in God’s eyes.

  Today was different. Vanity did not blind him as it once had with the trappings of royalty and nobility about him. Today he could simply feel.

  Closing his eyes again, he felt Jack lean against his arm. The boy trembled, and Crispin opened his eyes to slits to observe him. Jack’s hands were clasped tightly before him in prayer. And he intoned the Latin along with the monks. The Feast of the Virgin’s Nativity seemed especially important to Jack. For all men who had lost their mothers, he supposed. He seldom thought of his own mother or of the day of her birth – August the twelfth – but it seemed suitable to think of it now. He should visit her tomb back at his old estates at Sheen … but, with an unpleasant jolt, he remembered that the private chapel where her grave was, along with the entire manor house, had burned to the ground five years ago.

  He swallowed down the regret – so many regrets – and turned his gaze again toward the figure of the king. Lank, graceful, Richard sat in his royal chair, face raised toward the abbot with a steady gaze. His beard was trimmed to a line running along his jaw and on his chin, and his hair was coifed to just below his ears in a decisive curl. His intense gaze was focused on the statue of the Holy Mother that had been brought in with the procession. Festooned with flowers, the sedate figure seemed to look back fondly at Richard.

  Had the lords of Henry’s army tamed the king and his spending ways? Had Richard learned his lesson and put aside his favorites? Would he be the king everyone hoped he’d be? Or was he the king Crispin, when committing treason all those years ago, suspected he would turn out to—

  The thundering boom reverberated throughout the church. Everyone froze, caught up in sudden terror at the inexplicable sound. Then the crowd suddenly surged, and women and children screamed. Abbot William stopped his chanting and whipped around, perplexed.

  Crispin’s hand was on his dagger hilt, and he strained his neck to see what had happened. Had the roof fallen in? Was anyone hurt?

  A puff of smoke billowed up beyond the quire. It looked to be coming from St Edward’s chapel. A fire?

  As soon as the crowd saw the smoke, more screams echoed up to the ceiling and bounced about between the Purbeck marble columns. People began pushing their way back, trying to escape the church. Crispin was jostled this way and that while he shoved himself forward. Jack was right beside him.

  ‘What was it, Master Crispin?’ asked the boy.

  Crispin spared him a glance. ‘I don’t know. Let us find out.’ He shoved harder, shouldering his way between panicked people with Jack pushing men aside just as hard. On his toes, he saw that the quire was blocked by the rood screen and a gate. The king and his courtiers were making their way toward the north ambulatory, and Crispin moved in that direction as well.

  People moved past him in the opposite direction, pulling him back like a strong tide. ‘Move your sarding arse out of my way!’ Jack shouted at the crowd, and suddenly red-faced, he becrossed himself, glancing apologetically toward the large crucifix at the end of the quire.

  All at once the way was clear, and they plunged into the brief opening. Crispin rushed forward down the ambulatory, boots slapping the tile floor. The crowd was far behind him now, squeezing themselves through the west doors to escape with cries rising and falling. He dismissed the sound as irrelevant while his eyes scanned ahead. He and Jack moved past the north entrance with its webbing of scaffolding nearly blocking the way.

  He gained the archway to the Confessor’s chapel and stopped. Jack promptly ran into him. ‘What is it, master?’ he asked in a hushed voice and peered over Crispin’s shoulder.

  The king and his courtiers had gathered about the stately shrine of St Edward. The tomb rose up in two tiers atop an ornate stone plinth with arches running along its longer sides. The king and his courtiers blocked the view, but they were studying something at the foot of the shrine. Crispin longed to draw closer but dared not.

  ‘I don’t see no fire,’ Jack whispered.

  ‘No,’ answered Crispin just as quietly, and the relief he felt eased the tension that had wound his muscles tight. But there was still the remnant of smoke rising from the front of the crowd of men.

  ‘Is it St Edward’s shrine, master? Is something amiss with it?’

  ‘I can’t tell, Jack. I can’t see past the courtiers.’

  Just then the crowd parted for Abbot William, and Crispin could finally see. The men were looking at the Coronation Chair that stood opposite the shrine, and Richard stood before it, body sagging, breathing hard. His agitation was obvious, especially when he curtly gestured for some courtiers to escort the queen away. He looked up and tried to smile at his wife, but his misery was plain on his face. And then he spotted Crispin.

  Crispin straightened. He thought he had been well hidden in the shadows, but when the king’s glare did not abate, he realized how wrong he’d been. Richard stalked decidedly toward him.

  ‘God’s blood,’ Crispin hissed and got down on one knee. Jack followed suit slightly behind him.

  ‘Guest,’ Richard snarled. ‘What are you doing here?’

  With head bowed, Crispin stared only at Richard’s delicate slippers. ‘Sire, I came only to the feast day celebration.’

  He could hear Richard’s tense breathing over his head and then his clipped, ‘Stand.’

  Slowly, Crispin did. He raised his eyes to the king. Richard was taller than him now, and the fact surprised him.

  The king’s lips twisted into a sneer. ‘You came all this way to be at Westminster … for a feast day. Are there no churches on the Shambles?’

  The other courtiers watching from a distance might have laughed at Crispin’s distress at any other time. But they must have guessed their king’s demeanor and kept silent.

  ‘We … wished to see the celebration at Westminster, majesty.’

  ‘And to witness my humiliation!’

  ‘We … I … came to help, sire.’

  ‘Help? Help? Yes, the Tracker.’ He spit the title with vehemence. ‘The Tracker helps all of London, does he not?
Well then. Behold, Master Tracker. Look your fill!’ He thrust his trembling arm forward toward the chair. The courtiers stepped farther back, leaving the chair alone in a pool of candlelight.

  Urged thus by the king, Crispin had no choice but to move forward under the glares and suspicious gazes of the knights and noblemen. The sheriffs were there as well, and the new sheriffs whispered hungrily to each other, all the while keeping their eyes fixed on Crispin.

  Jack’s tentative steps were right behind his master. Surely the king could not blame Crispin for whatever was wrong.

  He looked at the chair, King Edward I’s Coronation Chair, with its straight back rising to a triangular point with two tall finials at its shoulders, its carved arms and gilt lions for feet at each corner. The back was painted a dark blue with birds and scrollwork in gold leaf. And the cushion was a dark velvet, so dark it looked like the night sky. All that was left of the explosion was a wisp of smoke curling upward. Nothing seemed amiss. The chair was in good order. The Stone …

  ‘God’s blood,’ Crispin whispered.

  The Stone of Destiny, the rectangular Stone that fitted neatly in a niche made for it beneath the seat, the Stone that Edward I had captured from the Scots nearly one hundred years before and put in the chair to show his dominion over them, was gone. In its place was left only a hollow and scattered bits of plaster.

  TWO

  Crispin glanced toward Richard.

  ‘Yes, Guest. You’ve marked it well. The Stone of Destiny is gone!’ Richard reared toward him. ‘What have you done with it?’