The Cup and the Crown (3 page)

The guildhall also had a library where the archives were kept, an airy, pleasant room with bookshelves running along the walls. In the center was a large oak table, at the far end of which sat the guild’s librarian, whose name was Joseph.

Light streamed in through tall windows onto the dome of his balding head. He was old and pale, as though the sun had bleached him out, and what little hair he had was fine and fair. But his eyes were bright, and so were his wits. Not only could he find the information they were seeking, he could do it in their own language.

He went to a shelf, quickly found the correct volume, and brought it back to the table. Then he started turning pages, leaning forward now and again to squint at an entry, shaking his head and turning to the next one. At last he seemed to have found something, but he didn’t say a word; he just opened a little box and took out a thin stick of yellow wood. This he carefully laid between the pages to act as a bookmark, then continued with his search.

Molly sat quietly, watching him and waiting. After a while she noticed that Stephen was looking down at the table, or gazing idly around the room—not staring unendingly at Joseph as she was doing.
Of course,
she thought; he was being polite. No one likes to be stared at. So she looked down at her hands, noticed a smudge, and was just wetting her fingers in her mouth to wipe the smudge away when she heard a gravelly snort. She turned to see Winifred, her head lolling forward, her mouth agape, and her eyes closed. Oh, they were such a hopeless pair of bumpkins! She nudged her friend with an elbow, then discreetly wiped her fingers on her skirt.

Joseph still studied the book in silence, flipping pages, stopping, reading, moving on. Now and then a look of triumph would cross his face and he’d tuck in a strip of wood to mark a page. At last it seemed he was done. He turned back to the beginning, folded his hands on the tabletop, and spoke.

“The first mention of your grandfather, William Harrows, is in May of 1358,” he said. “It’s in regard to a contract of employment in the workshop of Artur Volkmann. At the same time William was entered into our rolls as a journeyman silversmith, though there’s no record of his apprenticeship and no mention of who his master might have been. We must therefore assume that he came here from somewhere else. Harrows is probably a place-name, his town of origin.”

“Oh,” Molly said, disappointed. “I’d hoped to find some relatives here.”

“That’s very unlikely,” he said, tapping a bony finger thoughtfully on a corner of the book. “Wherever he came from, William should have had a document of release showing that he’d completed his term of service. But the records just say that he’d proved his competence to Master Volkmann’s satisfaction. Quite frankly, I find that suspicious.”

Molly’s hackles went up. “What do you mean, ‘suspicious’?”

“It suggests that your grandfather may have broken his contract and run away. In a case like that, who can tell what other crimes he might also have committed—thievery, for example, or worse—that forced him to leave his master, and indeed his native country? Of course, it’s also possible that he was set loose by some tragedy or other: plague, or fire, or accident. “

He stared into the distance for a moment, eyes half closed, quite unaware that Molly was red-faced and scowling.

“There’s something else that strikes me as odd,” he said, lifting his brows in emphasis. “William Harrows was only seventeen at the time. His apprenticeship would have taken seven years. He would have to have started at ten, which is . . . unusual.”

“Perhaps the rules were different in his home country,” Stephen suggested.

“Perhaps.” Joseph turned to the next marked section. “This should please you, my lady,” he said. “Remarkable—truly remarkable! At the age of twenty-two your grandfather submitted a masterpiece to the guild. That was very bold of him, being so young and new to the town. He cannot have imagined he’d be accepted. But he applied all the same. The work is described as”—he leaned forward and read, following the text with his finger—“‘a silver-gilt cup with a lid decorated with pearls set in filigree and embellished with transparent enamels of astonishing quality.’ Master Volkmann testified under oath that the work was wholly William’s own and he had not assisted him in any way.

“The piece must have been extraordinary for it to have been accepted,” he went on. “The old men on the committee would have been hard set against it: ‘
This will set a dangerous precedent! He must wait his turn!
’ And yet it
was
accepted, and William Harrows became the youngest master in the history of our guild.”

“Oh!” Molly said. “That does please me, very much.”

“I thought it would. Now, right below that is a second entry. Artur Volkmann and William Harrows entered into a partnership that same day—which is, again, highly unusual. Buying half a share of a large, established business would be beyond the means of a young man on a journeyman’s salary.”

“Are you suggesting—?”

“It’s just curious, that’s all—or at least it was till I read the next entry. On August 12, 1366, William married his new partner’s daughter, Martha.”

“That means Artur Volkmann was—”

“Your great-grandfather. Yes.” He turned to the next page.

“This one is dated February 3, 1368: ‘Master Artur Volkmann departed this life at the age of fifty-three. He was accompanied to the churchyard by his family and the members of the guild, etcetera, etcetera. . . . His last will and testament was established by probate, etcetera, etcetera . . . the beneficiary being his partner, William Harrows.’” He looked up at Molly. “That made him a very wealthy man. Quite a feat for a boy who arrived here . . . well . . .”

Molly heaved a loud sigh of disgust. Joseph didn’t seem to notice.

“‘On December tenth of that same year, a daughter was born to William Harrows, master goldsmith, and his wife, Martha.’ No name is given.”

“It was Greta,” Molly said.

He nodded and turned to the final entry but paused for a moment before reading it. “‘November 23, 1369, Master William Harrows was found dead in his workshop. In the absence of any family, the funeral was arranged by the guild.’”

He folded his hands on the table again. “That’s everything in the records. But it was common knowledge at the time that William was murdered.”

“I know.”

“Indeed?” He looked at her pointedly. “Well, since the wife and child were nowhere to be found, it was assumed that they had been taken, and most likely killed, by whoever had done the murder. Yet now here you are, saying you are William’s granddaughter. So I gather that the child at least—”

“Greta.”

“You claim that she survived.”

“Yes, I
do
claim it, for it is true. My grandmother fled to Westria with the baby and settled there.”

“Ah. I suppose you’ve come for the inheritance, then.”

“No!” she said, rising to her feet. “I have
not
come for his money. I came to learn my grandfather’s history.”

“All the same,” Joseph said, rising as well out of politeness, “I should tell you that William’s fortune was seized by the crown, there being no surviving heirs. So if you change your mind and decide to pursue it, you’ll have to prove that you are indeed William’s grandchild. And even then—”

“I will
not
pursue it.”

“As you wish. Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” said Molly.

“Yes,” said Stephen at exactly the same time. “The address of William’s shop.”

4
The Workshop of William Harrows

THEY LEFT THE GUILDHALL
and headed for the commercial district, Stephen leading the way. He took Molly’s arm and leaned over to speak softly into her ear. “The man didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“Really? He all but said my grandfather slit his master’s throat, then robbed him and ran away.”

“Excuse me, my lady, but you exaggerate.”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Well, he was useful, was he not?”

“I suppose.”

They turned down Silk Row and continued at an unhurried pace, admiring the goods on display: furs, lace, velvets, brocades, cloth-of-gold, and silken veils as fine as spiderwebs. Apprentices waiting outside shop doors perked up as they approached. “Something for the ladies?” they’d ask. “Won’t you come in and have a look?”

But Stephen would just nod and smile. “Not today, thank you,” he’d say.

At last they came to Goldsmith’s Lane, where he paused, looking thoughtfully up and down the street, wondering from which end the blocks were numbered.

“I think they start from the center of town,” Mayhew said.

“Yes. You’re right. In that case we should turn to the left.”

Winifred stopped to stare at a window display of brooches, belt fittings, signets, and sword hilts, all made from silver or gold, engraved or worked with fine enamels, inlaid with ivory, or set with precious jewels. “Oh!” she moaned. “Will you look at that?”

Instantly the apprentices were upon them.

“Just looking,” Stephen said, gently taking Winifred’s arm and urging her forward. “It’s best to keep moving,” he whispered.

They continued in the same leisurely manner, trying not to stare, until Stephen stopped before a particularly handsome doorway framed by a stone arch, its double doors open wide. Above the entrance was a painted wooden sign. The image was simple: the silhouette of a goblet rendered in silver on a field of blue. Molly recognized the shape at once. It was the Loving Cup, exactly as she’d seen in her dreams.

And perched on the post that held the sign was her raven.

“This is the place,” she said.

The sound of hammering filled the workshop—
tink
,
tink
,
tink
—as busy hands worked to form the shape of bowls or cups against the curved necks of little anvils. One man was pressing designs into a silver tray, carefully placing his punch, then striking it smartly with a hammer:
thunk!
Over by the forge, a journeyman and an apprentice did double-duty with the bellows.

Molly closed her eyes and tried to recall her grandfather’s workshop as she’d seen it in her visions. There’d been shelves to display his fine silver pieces against the right-hand wall, and the central worktable had been smaller. But the forge was in the same place, and she remembered the graceful arched window that filled the end wall of the long, narrow room. Yes, she was sure. This had once been the workshop of William Harrows, the place where Molly had watched him die.

“My lady?” Stephen said, gently touching her arm. “Will you please step this way?”

He guided her back toward the front of the room where a stocky man waited, looking very grand in saffron-colored silk. Pinned to his wine-red velvet cap was a handsome brooch: four pearls set in a diamond shape with a single ruby drop hanging from its lowest point.

“Lady Marguerite,” Stephen said in his best courtly manner, “may I present Master Frears, the owner of this shop.”

The man bowed and his ruby danced.

“Master Frears purchased this shop from another goldsmith, who had bought it years before from the crown. But he’s certainly heard of William Harrows, who is something of a legend in Goldsmith’s Lane, and assures me that this used to be his workshop.”

“Did you ask about the Loving Cups?” she said in Westrian.

“Not yet. I’ll do it now.”

While Stephen asked the question in flawless Austlinder, Molly scanned the countertops and shelves. There were any number of goblets on display, but all of them were in the new style, slender and tall. So unless Master Frears had some old pieces locked away somewhere . . .

Suddenly she realized how unlikely that was. The workshop and all of its contents had been seized by the crown. Besides the building, that would have included the tools and furnishings; William’s stock of silver and gold, jewels, ivory, pearls, coral, and onyx; and any finished pieces that had not been sold. It would have been the same with the family’s home. The king’s men would have come and carried everything away, from Greta’s cradle and Martha’s gowns to the pots and andirons in the kitchen. If there’d been a Loving Cup in either place, King Reynard had it now.

Disheartened, she turned back to Master Frears just as Stephen was rounding off his question. She saw the goldsmith cast a quick glance around the room, trying to decide which of several goblets he could pass off as a Loving Cup.

Was it even worth the effort of going through the motions, looking at what he had to offer, shaking her head, watching as he grew ever more desperate and offered her still more expensive cups her grandfather hadn’t made? Yet they’d come so far to find the cup. And what if Master Frears should suddenly remember: “Oh, you must mean
that
old thing—excuse me, I meant that
classically beautiful
piece up there on the top shelf hidden behind the silver-gilt bowl?”

It wasn’t likely, but it
might
happen.

She was staring at the floor, trying to decide what to do, when she had the distinct impression that she was being watched.

I see you!
said a voice in her head.

Molly looked up and saw a stooped old man sitting in a corner at the back of the shop. He was polishing a small bowl with a white cloth and gazing fixedly in her direction. She tugged gently at Stephen’s sleeve to get his attention. “There are no Loving Cups in this shop,” she whispered, “but keep him busy, will you? There’s something I need to find out.”

Stephen nodded and returned to the goldsmith while Molly wandered away.

The old man’s face didn’t change as she came closer. He just continued to stare straight ahead. And then she understood. He hadn’t been looking at her at all—the man was stone-blind.

Yet he spoke to her again in that strange way. His lips weren’t moving and she wasn’t hearing a voice, yet she knew exactly what he was saying.

You’re one of them, ain’t you?

She squatted down so they were face to face. “What did you mean, ‘You’re
one of them
’? One of who?”