Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

“Aren’t there some kind of old sewer drains and tunnels under Westminster Palace?” asked one of the men at his side.

  “That’s got to be it,” said Shepley. He turned to the guard. “You have the keys to this place?”

  The man shook his head. Already Shepley was on his way, scrambling on hands and knees back to the main floor of the Abbey. He stood and immediately took out his phone while those who were not involved in the search at the other end of the tunnel climbed out after him.

  “Get the river patrol here!” he shouted. “All available units. I want every inch of the Thames lit up like noon. And send me in a chopper. I’m going up top. I’ll wait in Parliament Square!”

  His men followed him through the Nave toward the door. As they ran, Shepley barked out orders to his assistant, then hurried outside and into the night to await his helicopter.

  Thirteen

  They’re on to you, Ferguson!” shouted a frantic voice over the small boat’s radio.

  “What do you mean, Cruim?” crackled back a voice into the earpiece.

  “It’s breaking loose, I tell you. There’s coppers and blokes from the Yard everywhere! The Abbey’s crawling with ’em, and half of ’em are making for the river. I think a helicopter’s heading this way.”

  “Lose the equipment and get out of there!” shouted Ferguson.

  He released the steering wheel and jumped briefly out on deck. He glanced from the river up toward the city. Lights from several police boats were moving out from Westminster Pier and beginning to probe the shoreline near where he had just been. Sirens were going off everywhere.

  The sounds of helicopter blades sounded in the distance. Once a chopper was up overhead, it would all be over.

  He hurried inside to the controls, throttled down slightly, and held the wheel steady straight across the river. He couldn’t go much faster, or he would lose the lines underneath. If they could just get close to the other bank . . .

  For a long, tense minute he held on, then glanced back. The chopper appeared to be setting down somewhere behind the Parliament buildings. It would be in the air again in another twenty seconds.

  Ferguson throttled back and cut the engine.

  This would have to do! He ran astern, knelt over the side, and grabbed at the lines, giving each a hard tug. Two heads, now three, at last a fourth all surfaced.

  “Get in, Malloy, Fiona . . . all of you,” he said urgently. “We can’t wait any longer.”

  “We’re not far enough downriver.”

  “I don’t know what you did,” replied Ferguson, pulling now one, now a second onboard, “but we’ve got Scotland Yard and the river police on our tail! I thought you were going to get out of there undetected.”

  The rest now scrambled aboard, helping one another unload tanks and masks and equipment. Within thirty seconds they were all leaning down to lug aboard the cargo at the end of the final line for which they had labored most of the night.

  The instant it was secure, Ferguson accelerated up to as much speed as he dared. Behind him, now the helicopter rose into the air, sending its spotlight probing in a wide arc across the surface of the Thames.

  Ferguson veered downriver as he crossed it, now passing beneath Westminster Bridge. If he could just get past Hungerford Bridge, the Festival Pier beyond it would offer them cover. Enough boats were moored on the opposite side of the river that he might be able to sneak in behind one. Behind him the chopper careened about in wide, menacing arcs, its spotlight panning back and forth along the shoreline.

  Several unmanned river-tour yachts were moored just ahead. Ferguson spun in behind one of them, throttled back, and cut the engine.

  “Get out of sight inside the cabin!” he cried.

  Four bodies dove for cover just as the helicopter’s beam scanned momentarily past them.

  “He’ll be back,” said Ferguson. “Get the tanks and wetsuits and Stone down below and out of sight. I’ll work us through these boats ahead. With any luck we might be able to get downriver far enough that I can get up some speed and get us down to Gravesend.”

  Again the chopper whirred overhead. When it was again past, all the equipment splashed overboard.

  A few moments more they waited. Gradually the sound of the helicopter receded as it banked back across the river and headed in the opposite direction toward Battersea and Chelsea.

  Ferguson carefully steered out between yachts and the shoreline for another two hundred yards, then eased out into the channel, turned downriver again, and revved up to fifteen knots.

  They passed under Blackfriars Bridge without incident, then London Bridge, now picking up more speed and making for the mouth of the Thames. As they passed under the Dartford Bridge fifty minutes later, they were skimming along at thirty-five knots, and the open sea of the mouth of the Thames lay ahead of them.

  Ferguson had a larger craft awaiting them at Southend.

  Fourteen

  The following afternoon, a private yacht bore northward off the coast of Lincolnshire. Its five passengers, three of whom were asleep in the cabins below, now breathed much easier than six hours earlier. All Scotland Yard and half of London’s police force were looking for them and their silent but weighty cargo, but in all the wrong places. The sewer hatch into the river had been found, as well as several well-planted clues pointing in directions the boatsman Ferguson had not been apprised of. Several known London sympathizers with his cause were already being rounded up for questioning.

  On deck, one of the divers, an enthusiastic and burly youth by the name of Fogarty, was speaking to their leader.

  “Where are we taking the Stone?” he said.

  “Where our independence was lost,” said the parliamentarian, who thought he had masterminded the symbolic theft. “We are taking it to the spiritual heart of the Highlands. For it is there that the ancient spirit of the Scot will rise again.”

  A puzzled expression met Ferguson’s gaze.

  “They were just using us for their own purposes as always,” Ferguson continued. “Returning the Stone to Edinburgh in ’96 on the eve of an election was just an attempt to curry Scottish favor and win votes. You don’t think they really cared about us, do you? The Stone may have been taken to Edinburgh, but it was still theirs. Look, the moment they need it to crown their new king, back to London it comes. But now we possess it on our terms, not theirs. It doesn’t belong in Edinburgh at the whim of the English parliament. It is the property of all true Scots, and it belongs in the Highlands. Our destination is Glencoe,” concluded Ferguson. “Study your history, man.”

  “You mean we’re not—”

  Behind them the only woman of the select coterie approached. Hearing fragments of their conversation, she quickly caught young Fogarty’s eye. He saw the expression, perceived her meaning, and stopped abruptly. He asked no more questions.

  “Our battle for independence climaxed at Glencoe,” she said as if in answer, but actually to divert his intended meaning. She slipped her hand through Ferguson’s arm as she spoke. “Glencoe’s treachery must be avenged. We have taken the first step tonight.”

  “Precisely why it is there that our new quest must begin,” added Ferguson.

  Fogarty nodded as if considering their words, then turned and walked away. He realized he had been careless and almost said too much.

  The two watched him go. When they were alone, the woman spoke.

  “You did it,” she said softly, smiling up at the Scot.

  “I could not have done it without you, Fiona darling,” said Ferguson. “Though I suppose we must admit that Malloy, Fogarty, Kerr, and Cruim all did their parts as well.”

  “We did it together,” she rejoined. “Now it is up to your colleagues in the Commons. And you must hasten back to join them.”

  “I do not like leaving you in Grimsby. I want no danger to come to you in case Scotland Yard does manage to pick up the trail.”

  “We will be fine. We will put in as weather requires and will be around the coas
t and safe within days. Malloy is a skilled sailor. But you . . . you are the most important member of the team. You must be back in London and out of suspicion.”

  Ferguson took her hand. This time she did not pull away. “Just make sure you disappear if there is any danger,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Then meet me at Glencoe,” he added. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “The Stone will be safe. But take care of yourself as well.”

  “I shall,” he said. “We will meet at the cottage after the election.”

  1. Westminster Palace is the official name for the Houses of Parliament building, and the two terms are used interchangeably.

  2

  Heir to a Legacy

  One

  Mountain winds carry many tales.

  Slashing swiftly down from the north, they bore wintry portent of descending arctic storm. In other seasons, from westward across the Irish Channel, offshore drafts brought scents of salt spray and herring, reminders of the coastline less than eight miles distant.

  Today’s gentle current sweeping across the lonely Cumbrian moor, however, came neither from north nor west, but from the southeast—an unusual heading for February winds in this region. The uncharacteristic origin was indicated by a hint of warmth, along with strange southern fragrances that seemed to accompany it.

  The walker who had been upon the open heathland for more than an hour had not explored these fading pathways of his youth for some time—too long, he realized. But the morning’s perfume had invaded his nostrils the instant wakefulness came upon him.

  In haste, while the house still slept, he had thrown on a plaid shirt, corduroy trousers, and jacket, then grabbed up a favorite walking stick and cap and ventured out into the thin light of the new day. Though the sting of yesterday’s luncheon with Blair was still with him, the bright cold morning’s air and the sight of his beloved hills quickly invigorated his system with the thought that perhaps life might go on in spite of it.

  He reacquainted himself with two or three childhood haunts in the morning chill, then returned to the house for breakfast with his mother and father and a look at the early edition of the Times. His mother was in good spirits, full of talk about her recent conservation activities. His father was his usual calm self. The subject of Blair did not come up.

  The moment he opened the paper, Andrew Trentham’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Did you see this, Father?” he exclaimed.

  “Haven’t had a chance,” answered Harland Trentham. “What is it?”

  “Someone broke into the Abbey last night.”

  “What? Vandalism—anything stolen?”

  “Apparently the Stone of Scone,” replied Andrew, then spread out the first page again and read through the startling account.

  Last night, in one of the most daring raids in recent English history, an unknown number of high-tech bandits tunneled into Westminster Abbey and made off with the historic Stone of Scone, only recently returned to London for the impending coronation. The intruders apparently tunneled through several sealed crypts and into a laundry under the floor of Chapter House—a thirteenth-century monks’ meeting room and home of the first English Parliament. They then bored under the floor of that section of the Abbey known as Poet’s Corner, removed the historic Stone from beneath the royal chair of coronation, and disappeared—all under the very noses of the contingent of the Black Watch which stands guard around the Abbey.

  The Stone of Scone is reportedly the very stone upon which King Kenneth MacAlpin was crowned the first king of Scotland in AD 868. It was brought to England in 1296, where it resided in Westminster Abbey until its 1996 transfer to the Crown Room of Scotland’s James VI in Edinburgh Castle. During its 700 year tenure in London, the Stone was removed once—in 1657 for Oliver Cromwell’s installation as Lord Protector—and stolen once—in 1950, when it was returned after several weeks. Brought back to London two weeks ago in preparation for Tuesday’s coronation of King Charles III, the Stone has been on public display in its former home at the Abbey, where it was scheduled to remain for one week following the ceremony.

  Scotland Yard is pursuing a number of leads at this time. Evidence has been found pointing to a connection with Scottish nationalists. However, no motive has been suggested, since right of possession of the Stone is no longer under dispute and it was to be returned to Edinburgh Castle well before the elections.

  A statement issued by Dagold MacKinnon of the S.N.P. disavows any knowledge of the theft. MacKinnon conjectures that perhaps Irish nationalists are responsible, intending to unite the fabled Blarney Stone of Ireland with the Stone of Scone in a gesture to promote independence of all peoples from the rule of London. Others suggest that the IRA is hopeful of upsetting the coronation and delegitimizing the English crown.

  “Why the IRA would be interested in the Stone is a mystery,” Scotland Yard’s Inspector Allan Shepley is quoted as saying in response. “At present we are ruling out no possibilities.” Whether the theft has any connection with upcoming national elections is also unknown.

  A statement issued by Buckingham Palace confirms that the coronation will proceed on schedule whether the Stone is recovered by Tuesday or not. The coronation chair, dating from the year 1300, was not damaged in the theft.

  Legend connects the Stone of Scone with the Irish coronation stone. Noted Irish druid Amairgen Cooney Dwyer, who was reached for comment at his compound in County Carlow, said: “The lia fail, or sacred stone, from Tara in ancient Eire, is considerably larger than the Scottish version and lays claim to the honor of having imbued ancient Irish royalty with power at their crowning. It presently stands on a mound within the earthwork known as Cormac’s House in County Meath.”

  The previous theft of the Stone of Destiny in 1950 was carried out by four Scottish nationalist students who pretended to be tourists, hid in the Abbey after its night closing, then fled with the Stone. They took it back to Arbroath Abbey, where it was laid at the High Altar. It was eventually returned to Westminster Abbey.

  Last night’s thieves apparently gained entry to former sewer mains through a long-forgotten drain line into the Thames just south of the Houses of Parliament. Sophisticated boring equipment enabled the thieves to dig from these tunnels into several ancient crypts beneath the Abbey, through which entrance to the laundry was gained. Escape was apparently made by the same route, into the Thames. The river’s banks and shorelines were combed, but without success.

  “The sheer weight of the Stone would make transport difficult,” said Shepley. “Motion detectors and alert security staff on hand in the parliamentary buildings brought us to the scene so quickly that in my opinion the thieves were not able to get the Stone far from the tunnel site. I do not consider it unlikely that, in making their own escape, they were forced to abandon the Stone in the Thames. We are dragging the bottom and divers are searching every inch at this time.”

  The historic Scottish stone, of pinkish-hued sandstone, into which two iron rings are imbedded on opposite ends of the top, measures 26 inches by 16 inches by 10 inches and weighs 336 pounds.

  Andrew set down the paper. “I just can’t believe it,” he said, handing it to his father. “When are these nationalists going to learn . . . and why steal what they already possess?”

  “You’ll need to return to London immediately,” now said Andrew’s mother.

  “There’s probably nothing much I could do if I were there,” replied Andrew. “But I’ll make a few calls later.”

  “How will this affect the coronation?”

  “I don’t know. The paper says it will go on as planned. Perhaps by then the Yard will have recovered the Stone and all will be well. Are you two still taking the train down on Monday?”

  “Unless the coronation is changed,” replied his mother. “And we’re still meeting you and Blair for dinner on Wednesday evening?”

  “Unfortunately,” si
ghed Andrew, “we will have to call that off . . . or else it will be just the three of us.” The moment had come and there was no use delaying it any longer. He proceeded to tell them what had transpired the day before.

  “What happened, Andrew?” his mother said in the familiar tone Andrew had been dreading. “What did you do?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Mother,” he replied, beginning to feel like a child again. “I’m mystified about it, too.”

  “You must have done something to offend her,” persisted Lady Trentham, her gray eyes searching his.

  Andrew shrugged, then rose and excused himself. He quickly forgot about both Blair and his mother as he found his jacket and left the house. The playful southerly breeze drew him irresistibly toward the hills again. As he walked, he found his mind returning to the Times article.

  The account of the ancient Stone’s theft stirred unaccountable emotions in Andrew’s heart. He had seen the Celtic Stone, of course, any number of times when visiting the Abbey, and had been part of the symbolic ceremony in Edinburgh in ’96 when it was installed in the castle along with the Scottish crown jewels. He knew the basic facts of its history and its connection with the mystical legends of Scotland’s past.

  Now all at once the Stone came into the center of his thoughts. Where had it originated? he wondered. What was its significance? Why did the Scots value it so highly? Did it possess some mystical power?

  The stone of Arthur’s sword was undoubtedly myth. But the Celtic Stone of Scottish lore was a tangible piece of rock, and yet one whose history extended far back into the mists of time. He had heard Scots maintain that the history of Scotland was more ancient and unbroken than England’s. If so, what role did the stolen Stone occupy in that history?

  As the breezes forecast, an unseasonable warmth quickly began to activate more perspiration than the leisurely pace of Andrew’s second outing of the day could account for. He struck out toward the summit of the hill rising not far from the house called Bewaldeth Crag.