‘An interesting habit,’ he said and tossed the plaster shard away. ‘How will you proceed?’
He sagged and touched one finial of the chair’s back, before running his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. Has the abbey received any threats? Any letters?’
‘None that I have been aware of.’
‘Who would have been responsible for cleaning the chair? Surely someone applying polish to the wood would have noticed a difference in the Stone on close inspection? It might give us a better idea as to when the switch was made.’
Colchester nodded. ‘I will ask the chamberlain.’ He turned and motioned toward a dark corner and only when a monk emerged from the shadows did Crispin realize he had been there all along, waiting on his abbot … or protecting him from Crispin, no doubt. ‘Fetch him immediately.’
The abbot went back to his stoic stance of waiting, hands crossed over each other. Crispin could not stand immobile. He strode to the chair instead and walked around it as far as he could. The chair was situated opposite of Edward the Confessor’s tomb. Candles on stands were positioned at each corner of the sepulcher, flickering their bright light.
Leaning over to examine the chair’s chipping paint, the scratches from the explosion, Crispin shook his head in wonder. If more powder had been used, it could very well have blown up the chair. The thief either knew his business well or was extraordinarily lucky.
It wasn’t long that a monk came striding toward them. His hair was nearly as red as Jack’s, and he bowed to his abbot and looked down his nose at Crispin. ‘My Lord Abbot,’ he said with a distinct northern accent. Crispin narrowed his eyes.
The monk glanced past him to the chair, and he seemed to startle back.
‘Brother Crìsdean, could you tell me when was the last time you cleaned the Coronation Chair.’
‘Och, look at it!’ He staggered forward, nearly shoving Crispin aside, and knelt before the chair. ‘What happened?’
‘Were you not at the Mass?’ asked Crispin.
He picked up a few shards and scrutinized them. ‘I was not. Someone had to make certain the refectory was ready for our royal visitors. My Lord Abbot insisted.’
‘When did you last clean the chair, Brother?’ Crispin said again.
He turned then, wild puzzlement on his features. ‘What difference could it possibly make?’
‘More than you think. The Stone—’
‘The Stone! Jesus, the Stone!’
Crispin sighed. Was it an act? Had the man only just now noticed the absence of the Stone? And, if so, would he have noticed a difference when he last cleaned the chair?
‘Just so,’ he said mildly. ‘If you could tell me …’
Abruptly, the monk turned his back. ‘What happened, my Lord Abbot?’
Abbot William was the very image of patience. He shrugged a careless gesture toward Crispin, and the monk reluctantly faced him again.
‘As I was saying,’ Crispin went on. ‘When was the last time you cleaned this chair? Did you notice anything amiss?’
‘Yesterday,’ he said in bewilderment.
‘And the Stone. Do you recollect whether you saw anything strange about it?’
‘No. On my life. It was the same as it always was. I wiped its surface as well. It was the Stone. The same. The iron rings were there.’
‘Iron rings?’
‘Yes.’ He seemed to come out of his stupor and raised his face to Crispin’s. ‘The iron staples and rings, used for carrying the Stone. It has always had them.’
‘I see. I have never had occasion to be that close to the Coronation Chair, nor to scrutinize the Stone before.’
‘Naturally.’ His accent seemed to thicken the more irritated he became.
‘And where do you hail from, Brother Crìsdean?’
The monk raised his chin. ‘And why would you care?’
‘Because the Stone was stolen and a false one in its place was blown up to most dramatic effect. And the perpetrators were most certainly Scottish rebels.’
‘Oh, I see. And the first Scot you come across is the guilty one, eh? Such a fine reputation you have, Master Guest. Surely I should be dragged away forthwith in chains!’
‘Now, Brother,’ warned Abbot William. ‘No one is accusing you. Nor are we set to drag you away in chains. Master Guest was merely exercising his considerable skills of observation.’ A flicker of a smile curved his lips but was instantly gone again.
‘You may very well wish to mock me,’ Crispin snarled. ‘But I have been tasked with finding the Stone, and for this my apprentice’s life hangs in the balance. It is hardly a laughing matter, my Lord Abbot.’
The abbot closed his eyes and bowed. ‘Indeed. Forgive me, Master Guest. Is there more you wish to ask of my monk?’
So much more, he thought. ‘No more for now,’ he said instead.
The monk acknowledged them both with a bow and pivoted before hurrying away. He looked back once over his shoulder to glare at Crispin, but the shadows soon swallowed him.
The abbot looked back at his retreating monk curiously. ‘You don’t suspect him, do you?’
‘I suspect everyone,’ Crispin growled. He raked his fingers through his hair again. Something like this was difficult enough without the added complication of Jack’s incarceration. ‘How long has he been a monk here, Father Abbot?’
Colchester’s normally blank features twisted in a frown. He slipped his hands inside his sleeves. ‘Less than a year. He came from another monastery. In … in the north.’
‘If I were you, I’d keep an eye on him.’ Crispin turned to leave.
‘Where do you go now, Master Guest?’
‘I must follow a trail that is a day old. I am grateful it is not older.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Please. Pray for a swift outcome. For Jack Tucker’s sake.’
‘That I shall, Master Guest. And for you as well.’
Crispin ducked his head in thanks before he walked in stiff strides down the ambulatory and past chattering groups of men still lingering in the nave.
When he stepped outside into the abbey’s courtyard he breathed deep. What the hell was he to do now? Organize your thoughts, Crispin. He breathed again. Perhaps it would be best to seek out the place where the gunpowder might have been acquired. There weren’t likely many places. Perhaps the Palace. Perhaps the Tower. He had to think. Whom could he ask? Lancaster? But he was still in Spain. Henry? He might know. He could send Jack to get a message …
How much he relied on the boy. How accustomed he had become to having him beside him. Stoking his fires, fetching the water, caring for him. And now …
Goddamn Richard! What was the man thinking? He was frightened, that was certain. And like a frightened beast he lashed out where he least should. If only …
A loud caw startled him. He looked down. A large raven had lighted on the path before him. ‘Shoo! Begone!’ He waved his hand at the bird, but it only hopped back a few paces before opening its dark beak again and crying its raucous call.
‘I haven’t time for this.’ Crispin made a wide berth around the bird, but the raven hopped to stand before him again. It cawed once more, opened its wings, and flapped till it lighted on a fence post.
Crispin attempted to skirt it again but was bombarded with a cascade of caws. The bird hopped farther along the fence as if it was leading him.
Crispin looked around. A trained bird? Someone’s idea of a jest?
He drew his sword halfway from its scabbard before he thought better of it. Was he to be seen on the street swiping at a bird? They’d think him mad. He took a step forward, and the bird cut him off. He stepped to the side and was rewarded with hoarse cawing. He stepped the other way, and the bird took flight ahead of him. What madness is this?
Just to test it again, he made tracks in the opposite direction, and the bird was back, soaring over his head and alighting on the roof’s eave before him. It scolded, glaring with tiny beady eyes.
‘I’m a fool for certain,�
�� he muttered and pivoted, returning to the path the bird seemed to want him to take.
Just as he made to skirt the bird again, it darted forward, landed on his scrip, and plucked at it, nearly getting to his money pouch inside. ‘What the hell?’ Without its prize, the bird flapped and called, flying off. But something clicked in Crispin’s memory. He still felt the fool, but he trotted after the bird now, keeping it within his sight as it wheeled across the rooftops.
The bird flew ahead but waited for him on posts, ale stakes, and roof tops when he fell behind. ‘I’m following, damn you,’ he muttered, wondering why he was wasting his precious time on this when urgent matters awaited. But each time he tried to abandon the bird, it pursued him, sometimes so close he feared it would bite him. He sent up a silent prayer for patience and followed down more winding lanes. He felt more and more foolish until the bird seemed to be homing in on somewhere in particular.
At the end of a lane, the way was blocked by a ramshackle house with slate shingles, many of which were missing. The bird flew straight through the open doorway, and Crispin rested his hand on his sword pommel. ‘Well! Let us excise this mystery forthwith.’ He marched forward and didn’t knock as he bent to pass under the low lintel.
The room was dark and vacant, except for a stool and a table with three legs. The hearth was cold, and shadows slanted over the walls. A ladder stretching up to a loft stood to his right. He heard a rustle, and figured it was the bird settling on a perch in the loft. ‘Well?’ said Crispin. ‘Is anyone here?’
‘Only me,’ said a gravelly voice behind him.
FOUR
Crispin turned, fully expecting the sight of the old man with a tattered eye patch over one eye. He folded his arms over his chest when the raven lighted on the old man’s shoulders.
‘I’ll be damned,’ said the man in a roughened voice. ‘Is that Crispin Guest?’
‘It is, you old thief. This can’t be the same bird from all those years ago.’
The man chuckled and rubbed his gray chin stubble. ‘Och me, no. Sir Ingram has long since passed. This is Lady Agnes.’ He raised his finger to the dark bird, and she nibbled affectionately on the digit. ‘And a right smart fitheach.’
‘Your “Lady Agnes” tried to pilfer my purse. You wouldn’t be up to your old tricks again, would you, Domhnall?’
‘Me? Ah, Master Crispin. An old man such as m’self?’
‘How else did she get into the habit of seeking out purses?’
‘They like shiny things. Coins, jewelry.’ He shrugged. ‘I canna seem to break her of the habit.’
‘Of course not.’ He looked around the barren room. Small, few bits of furniture, a sputtering fire in the mostly broken hearth. Crispin usually only concerned himself with the hardened criminal, those willing to commit violence, rape, or extortion. He had always been inclined to let the petty thief off with a warning. And Domhnall had been no exception. His trained bird had done much thievery over the years, but the man had been clever and had done Crispin a favor or two, and so Crispin had been willing to look the other way.
He shuffled his feet on the dusty floor. ‘You’re a northerner, aren’t you?’
Domhnall lowered himself to a rickety stool and fed the bird on his shoulder scraps of dried meat he pulled from a pouch at his belt. It looked to be nearly the only food on the premises.
The man squinted his remaining eye at Crispin. ‘That had a very accusing tone to it, sir.’
‘Forgive me. I had not meant it to come out that way.’ He crouched to be at the man’s height, looking him in the eye. ‘It is just that I seem to be plagued of late with your countrymen.’
‘Oh? How so?’
How much to say? ‘Something of great import was stolen. I have reason to believe that Scottish rebels had something to do with it.’
‘Rebels, you say? Well. That is something, then, isn’t it? Do you think I’m a rebel?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you … but no. I do not.’
He chuckled again and lifted the bird from his shoulder with a finger. Its toes wrapped about it as he lifted higher and shook his hand, sending the bird flying to its perch. She cawed once at Crispin, as if he had something to do with it, and commenced grooming her feathers. ‘I’m too old for such nonsense in any case. And too set in my ways to return to Scotland. I’ve no family and my clan has long forgotten me, no doubt. No, Westminster is now my home.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Would you care to make some coin?’
The old man’s jovial features suddenly turned to a scowl. ‘Just because I am an old man doesn’t mean I’d betray my countrymen and king. That’s the Scottish king I speak of, in case you didna get my meaning.’
‘I understood you, Master Domhnall. I feared my request might put you at odds with your countrymen.’ He rose and bowed. ‘My apologies. Forgive this intrusion, then.’ Crispin turned to leave.
‘Wait.’ Domhnall rose slowly, grunting. ‘Och, these old bones. And with another winter coming on, too. Maybe you’d best explain, Master Crispin, and then I’ll tell you whether you insult me or not. After all, a full coin purse can go a long way to assuage my indignity.’
Crispin gave the room another glance before walking to the man’s meager fire. ‘Very well. I shall have to trust you even as you put your trust in me. The Coronation Chair at Westminster has lost its Stone.’
‘Eh?’ The bushy brows over Domhnall’s hazel eye and eye patch gradually rose. ‘Do you mean to say … God’s toes. The Stone of Scone has been liberated?’
‘Stolen, yes.’
Domhnall offered a sly smile. ‘Ha! Well.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s a difference of opinion, then.’
Crispin grimaced, thinking of the empty space under the chair. ‘The king is not best pleased.’
‘No. I reckon not.’
‘And as a consequence has taken my apprentice hostage. I have three days to find it or he’ll kill the boy.’
Domhnall’s smile slipped away. ‘Oh.’ He hobbled forward toward the raven on its perch and petted the dark feathers. The bird, for her part, seemed to coo at his ministrations. ‘Oh, that is a harsh thing.’
‘Yes,’ he said tightly.
‘I always admired the fact that you took him in, Master Crispin. Him a lowly cutpurse. One of our own, so to speak. No, Jack doesn’t deserve that.’
‘You see my dilemma.’
‘Aye.’ The bird left the perch to light upon his shoulder again. She gently toyed with his eye patch. ‘I’d no see harm come to young Master Jack,’ he said, lightly batting the bird away. Lady Agnes sat back, eyeing Crispin with the cock of her head. ‘What sort of help would you be needing?’
Crispin sighed with relief. ‘I would mostly need you to keep your ears and eyes open.’
He tapped the eye patch. ‘Only the one left, but it’s as good as two.’
‘And report to me if you hear anything of this plot. But Master Domhnall, our time is very short.’
‘Isn’t it always, bless the Lord? And yet, plots there are aplenty on the streets of London and Westminster. Those men that hold the Stone might be reasoned with.’
Crispin laughed humorlessly. ‘My friend, you have a very naïve view of the world if you believe that. Why, by God’s grace, would they wish to do so?’
‘For money, of course. Many a high and mighty ideal can be swayed thus.’ Crispin gave him a withering look. ‘Oh, not you of course, Master Crispin. Who has not heard the tales of the Tracker?’
‘Do you mean to say that they hold the thing for ransom? That all the king need do is give them their bag of gold and they would relinquish it? I think it far too valuable to trade it for gold. In many men’s eyes, it represents the king’s foot on the neck of Scotland. You cannot put a price on that. It can be a banner for open rebellion, and Richard knows it.’
‘You know a great deal of such matters for a southerner.’
‘I was a warrior, remember? My head was bent over many a map of strategy. Only a fool
would bargain the Stone for money when so much time and preparation went into its theft.’
‘There’s a saying in my country, Master Crispin: Cùm do chù ri leigeadh. “Hold back your dog till the deer falls.” There’s more here than meets the eye.’
‘How do you reckon that?’
‘It’s hiding under the thatch.’
‘Your metaphors are aggrieving my head.’
‘Tell me how the Stone was taken.’
Crispin gauged the old man again. The cagey bastard knew more than at first appeared. ‘It was replaced with a fake some days ago, and the fake exploded during Mass.’
‘Ah!’ The man scrubbed at his chin again. ‘It was no to be a secret until it was discovered gone, then. They could have left the fake there for days, months before it was discovered. But no. They wanted this to strike fear in King Richard’s heart. They wanted to let all the kingdom know what they were about. This is not the work of mere rebels but of a man of wealth with long arms.’
Crispin nodded. ‘A lord.’
‘Aye. And no just any laird. What of all the uprisings in the north of late?’
‘Yes, what of them?’
Crispin waited for more, but the man simply shuffled back to his stool and sat.
‘I will think on it, Master Crispin. And I will let you know.’
Dismissed, Crispin saw no other course but to leave. He reached into his scrip, wincing from the cut on his hand, and pulled out his money pouch. Taking two coins, they were suddenly snatched out of his hand by a snapping beak and the whoosh of dark wings.
Domhnall laughed and accepted the coins Lady Agnes dropped into his open palm. ‘Now you see, that is a fine servant.’
‘Yes. As is Jack Tucker.’
The old man blinked his rheumy eye. ‘I have no forgotten, Master Crispin.’ He tucked the coins into his own pouch and gave the raven a bit of dried meat. ‘You can rely on me.’
Crispin bowed. ‘I thank you, Master Domhnall.’
‘If I were you,’ called the old man just as Crispin reached the threshold, ‘I might ask at the Keys Tavern. It is known that many of my countrymen favor the place.’
The Silence of Stones Page 3
