little cousins, that he’d seen standing, singly or in groups, across the face of Cornwall. Tombs or temples or something. Sacrificial altars for the local druids.
In any case, this was not just a piece of bedrock from which the soil had eroded; its presence was artificial, although it must have weighed tons: There was room for three or four men to stretch out on top.
As Grey was stretched out, sprawled with the abandon of a sleeping boy, head resting on his folded jacket, face raised to the sun. Feeling oddly middle-aged, forced to use the rough footholds as a ladder where Grey had gone up them as a stairway, Stuyvesant scrambled onto the high surface. Once there, he brushed off his hands and stepped to the end of the rock—only to shy suddenly back, startled by the precipitous drop at his feet. The brambles had hidden how close the rock was to the cliff’s edge: One kick from Grey’s boot and he’d have been airborne.
He glanced involuntarily down at the small man. Despite his shut eyes, Grey’s mouth now had a distinct curve, as if he’d felt his companion’s abrupt movement, known the reason, and found it amusing. Disconcerted, Stuyvesant retreated to the far side of the deliciously warm stone and settled with his feet pointing towards the mainland: No Bureau agent worth his salt would sit with his back exposed, but the nerve-endings along his spine reassured him that the drop to the sea was as good as a wall. He laid his coat to one side and thumbed open the buttons to his waistcoat, leaning back on braced arms and crossing his outstretched legs at the ankles. His upper foot beat a rhythm in the air until he noticed it, and stopped.
At first, his mind circled furiously around the problem of Bennett Grey: Who was he, why had Stuyvesant been brought to him, how could he use the man to get at The Bastard? But after a few minutes, a bird passing high overhead distracted him from purposeful thoughts, and he couldn’t help noticing how sweet the air was, and how the sky was an endless arc of blue with a smatter of decorative clouds out to the west. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the outstretched water, far from being huge and empty, supported a surprising number of boats, both near the shore and out to the horizon.
Harris Stuyvesant filled his lungs, and eased the breath out. No offices here, no bureaucrats shoving cups of tea at him, no muscular toughs in cloth caps jamming their leaflets in his face, demanding that he admit the iniquities of mine owners. No knots of tension, no sudden wariness on seeing a handful of men coming down the sidewalk at him. No sidewalks, for that matter. No parcels or carts that could hide a bomb—that sudden flash: shattering glass, torn bodies.
He took another slow breath, and felt peace slip over him like a glove. He wanted to lie down next to Grey and take a nap.
Instead, he sat upright and patted his pockets for the cigarette case, keeping his eyes on the countryside. He could now see that the ruined foundations of the field below formed three clusters of rough joined circles, marks from a prehistoric giant’s bubble pipe.
“Nice view.”
“The Beacon, they call it.”
Stuyvesant glanced over his shoulder at the cliff’s edge, but could see no indication of a structure. “An early light-house that fell into the water?”
“More like an enormous pile of firewood. In 1588.”
“Fifteen…? Ah, the Armada.”
“Possibly the first beacon lit, on July 19. And very probably by an inhabitant of my cottage.”
“You’d think they’d at least have carved the date over the door. I mean, there’s history and there’s
History.
”
“Just another day, fending off the Spanish threat.”
“And is that really a Phoenician village?”
“The men from the land of purple,” Grey said, his voice going dreamy. “A nation of sailors who plied the seas from Alexandria to the gates of Gibraltar and beyond, their ships mighty with sail and oar, who traveled
In any case, this was not just a piece of bedrock from which the soil had eroded; its presence was artificial, although it must have weighed tons: There was room for three or four men to stretch out on top.
As Grey was stretched out, sprawled with the abandon of a sleeping boy, head resting on his folded jacket, face raised to the sun. Feeling oddly middle-aged, forced to use the rough footholds as a ladder where Grey had gone up them as a stairway, Stuyvesant scrambled onto the high surface. Once there, he brushed off his hands and stepped to the end of the rock—only to shy suddenly back, startled by the precipitous drop at his feet. The brambles had hidden how close the rock was to the cliff’s edge: One kick from Grey’s boot and he’d have been airborne.
He glanced involuntarily down at the small man. Despite his shut eyes, Grey’s mouth now had a distinct curve, as if he’d felt his companion’s abrupt movement, known the reason, and found it amusing. Disconcerted, Stuyvesant retreated to the far side of the deliciously warm stone and settled with his feet pointing towards the mainland: No Bureau agent worth his salt would sit with his back exposed, but the nerve-endings along his spine reassured him that the drop to the sea was as good as a wall. He laid his coat to one side and thumbed open the buttons to his waistcoat, leaning back on braced arms and crossing his outstretched legs at the ankles. His upper foot beat a rhythm in the air until he noticed it, and stopped.
At first, his mind circled furiously around the problem of Bennett Grey: Who was he, why had Stuyvesant been brought to him, how could he use the man to get at The Bastard? But after a few minutes, a bird passing high overhead distracted him from purposeful thoughts, and he couldn’t help noticing how sweet the air was, and how the sky was an endless arc of blue with a smatter of decorative clouds out to the west. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the outstretched water, far from being huge and empty, supported a surprising number of boats, both near the shore and out to the horizon.
Harris Stuyvesant filled his lungs, and eased the breath out. No offices here, no bureaucrats shoving cups of tea at him, no muscular toughs in cloth caps jamming their leaflets in his face, demanding that he admit the iniquities of mine owners. No knots of tension, no sudden wariness on seeing a handful of men coming down the sidewalk at him. No sidewalks, for that matter. No parcels or carts that could hide a bomb—that sudden flash: shattering glass, torn bodies.
He took another slow breath, and felt peace slip over him like a glove. He wanted to lie down next to Grey and take a nap.
Instead, he sat upright and patted his pockets for the cigarette case, keeping his eyes on the countryside. He could now see that the ruined foundations of the field below formed three clusters of rough joined circles, marks from a prehistoric giant’s bubble pipe.
“Nice view.”
“The Beacon, they call it.”
Stuyvesant glanced over his shoulder at the cliff’s edge, but could see no indication of a structure. “An early light-house that fell into the water?”
“More like an enormous pile of firewood. In 1588.”
“Fifteen…? Ah, the Armada.”
“Possibly the first beacon lit, on July 19. And very probably by an inhabitant of my cottage.”
“You’d think they’d at least have carved the date over the door. I mean, there’s history and there’s
History.
”
“Just another day, fending off the Spanish threat.”
“And is that really a Phoenician village?”
“The men from the land of purple,” Grey said, his voice going dreamy. “A nation of sailors who plied the seas from Alexandria to the gates of Gibraltar and beyond, their ships mighty with sail and oar, who traveled
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