The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Y-yes, Master Waterton. I understand, sir. I am sorry for everything …’

  ‘You will stay in your room, Master Tucker. You will not leave it. And to make certain of that, I will lock you in.’

  ‘Oh no, Master Waterton! Please don’t do that.’

  ‘Come with me.’ Fisting his hood’s cape again, he dragged Jack along back to the servant’s room.

  ‘Please, Master. Don’t do it. I can’t be useful locked up.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ He opened the door and pushed Jack in. ‘You will be at your most useful if you do not cause this family further harm.’ He slammed the door and a key scraped in the lock, shutting it tight.

  EIGHTEEN

  A woman came running down the lane toward Crispin, muddied skirts held up, exposing spattered stockings. But of course it was no woman but John Rykener. Out of breath, Rykener stopped before Crispin and bent over, breathing and clutching his thighs.

  ‘Bless me!’ he gasped. ‘You are a hard man to find. I was trying to warn you—’

  The door opened to the inn and out stepped McGuffin and his men. As soon as he spotted John he pointed straight-armed at him. ‘You!’

  John stomped his foot. ‘You are no gentleman, sir!’

  McGuffin trudged toward John and glowered over him. ‘I’m no gentleman?’

  This began to draw the attention of the people along the street. Crispin slowly stepped back out of the way.

  ‘You treated me most foul when all I wanted was a little information. After all, sir, you and your men did handle me roughly.’

  ‘Here! What’s this?’ A man with a hay fork over his shoulder came out of the gathering crowd and approached McGuffin, who was squaring with Rykener. ‘Demoiselle, should I call in the law?’

  Rykener’s demeanor changed immediately. His face softened, and he smiled at the man. ‘Oh, you are kind, good master, to wish to help. But this … this miscreant can do me little harm now.’

  McGuffin’s face blared red. ‘I’m … That … Oh! I’ll no forget this!’ He stormed off up the lane, followed quickly by his retainers.

  Seeing no more than a common row, the crowd dispersed on its own. Rykener curtseyed to the man with the rake and hurried toward Crispin, taking his arm even as Crispin protested.

  ‘I had been trying to warn you about McGuffin,’ said Rykener, walking down the lane with Crispin who finally shucked him from his arm. ‘He said he would find you.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him that he had to help, that his soul was in peril because of it. I might have even blasphemed a bit. Called him a few names.’

  ‘I appreciate it, John. Did you learn anything new?’

  ‘He swore every oath he knew that he had nothing to do with the theft of the Stone, that he was charged to some other purpose – I could not find out what – and that I was never to return to darken his door.’

  ‘It might interest you to know that I did find out what he was up to, at least. He is supposed to be in charge of secreting a stolen piece of jewelry belonging to the queen.’

  ‘Our queen?’

  ‘Yes, presumably. Why this has anything to do with the Stone’s plot, I do not know, but it is the same plot, for it was fashioned by the same man, John Dunbar, earl of Moray.’

  ‘Just as you said to Master Domhnall. Should you not have pursued that cause simply to find the Stone?’

  They wove their way down to Charing Cross and stopped at the stone steps. ‘Though I think I believe McGuffin when he says he has nothing to do with the Stone’s disappearance, I am beginning to think I should have.’ Crispin stepped up onto the steps and sat. The shadow of the arched monument angled away from him, and he could enjoy the sun as it warmed the wool breast of his cotehardie. John sat beside him, arranging his skirts. ‘We know where he is, and he is safe there for the time being.’

  ‘But now you are certain of this John Dunbar.’

  ‘He is not my concern. He is far from here. The immediate threats are these three factions. And I have met Deargh.’

  ‘Oh! And is he the danger that Master Domhnall painted?’

  ‘Perhaps. He wanted to hire my help and was disappointed that it was not for sale.’

  ‘Just like McGuffin.’

  ‘Yes. But I am fairly certain that there are at least two monks at the abbey who were at the heart of this conspiracy and one might just be ready to crack. I told him that I will allow him one day to decide whether he deals with me or the king’s inquisitors.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Like a guilty man.’

  ‘Oh dear. I wish Jack Tucker were here. He’d know what to do. Oh! I … forgive my wayward tongue.’

  ‘I know. I wish he were here, too. He’d say something like, “You’re not thinking clear, Master Crispin—”’ He did his best imitation of Jack’s voice and accent. His chuckle was bittersweet. ‘And he’d be right. I was so balled up in fear for that stubborn, annoying boy that I nearly lost my thread of thought. But it’s back now. I think I shall return and see if that monk is good and marinated and ready to confess all to me.’

  ‘What happened to giving him a day to decide?’

  ‘John,’ he said chuckling and shaking his head, ‘I was never going to give him an entire day.’

  The argument had been going on for the length of time it had taken to traverse the last few streets. ‘John, for the last time, will you go home and change!’

  ‘Crispin, there is no time. We are almost at the abbey.’

  ‘Precisely. Do you go into a church dressed like that?’

  ‘All are welcome at church, Crispin. The Almighty knows who I am, woman’s clothes or man’s.’

  Grumbling, Crispin stalked forward up St Margaret’s Street, leaving John to trot to catch up. They made it to the north door. Crispin hurried in under the cool stone, hastily dipping a finger into the font to sketch a cross upon his forehead and chest. He marched forward until he was almost under the crossing. The way was barred by a locked gate to the quire. He headed up the north ambulatory instead toward Edward the Confessor’s chapel.

  He slowed when he approached it. There, the tomb, and before it, the chair, devoid of its Stone.

  ‘It truly is missing, isn’t it?’ John said beside him, voice echoing in susurrating whispers. ‘I somehow thought …’ He hugged himself. ‘It gives me a chill thinking about it.’

  Crispin felt it, too. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  He could see monks wandering in the distance, and others – merchants, clerks, lawyers, pardoners – all milling in the nave, looking for prospective employers. Still, even with all these, he approached the Chair unmolested. The chair, still a proud thing, was the worse for wear with its missing stone, like a gouged eye. The debris had long ago been cleared away. When had the Stone been taken? That was the important question, one that couldn’t seem to be answered.

  ‘Is it heavy, Crispin?’

  He looked at John standing beside him in his women’s clothes. The man had his fingers to his lips, brows bowed outward with worry.

  ‘I imagine it is. A piece of granite to fit that space. It would take two men at least to carry it away. Rings or no rings.’

  ‘Truth to tell, Crispin, I can’t say that I have ever thought much about the Stone of Destiny. Does it … is it a fancy stone? Carved and all?’

  ‘As far as I know it is not. I have only seen the one side of it, facing this way.’

  ‘It must be very old.’

  ‘It was said to pillow Jacob’s head. So it is very old and has come very far.’

  ‘Such a thing. Shouldn’t it have been guarded, then?’ He looked around, perhaps looking for those elusive guards.

  Crispin followed his gaze, spying the finery of curtains, gold leaf, velvet cushions for his majesty, and the finery festooning the tombs. ‘Well, the monks guard what treasures are here, either golden ones or the honored dead.’

  ‘Perhaps they are not enough.’<
br />
  Crispin nodded. He had a point. After all, here they were with no one questioning them. Slowly, he walked around the chair, then lifted his gaze to the tomb, and still higher up the walls to the arched ceiling falling away into darkness. ‘Three factions, John. All having something to do with stealing the Stone, and not one of them has it.’

  ‘You believe them now, then? That it isn’t a farce just to deceive you?’

  ‘Oh I believe it is a farce, right enough. But, if anything, it has rebounded upon them. They sought to confuse me but succeeded in only confusing themselves. I believe they were sincere in their belief that each faction was to take charge of the Stone and were confounded when that part of the plan exploded in their face.’

  ‘So … they don’t have the Stone? Any of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But … each thought they were to be the recipients.’

  ‘Yes. Except perhaps for McGuffin.’

  ‘Then … what happened?’

  Crispin scrubbed at his chin. ‘What jewelry is it, I wonder, that McGuffin was to steal? Surely it was worth more than the mere selling of it, for why else would it have to do with the queen? Why that particular piece? And when was it taken? Was the taking of one to distract from the taking of the other?’

  ‘Bless me, Crispin! What thoughts you weave!’

  ‘Hmm.’ He rested a foot on the step leading up to the chair, and rested his forearm on his thigh. ‘John, if you were to steal the Stone of Destiny, how would you go about it?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see. It’s like a game.’ He moved closer to the chair but still stayed behind Crispin to peer at it. ‘Well, as you said, it’s heavy.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And so I would need an accomplice.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And then … bless me, larceny is hard!’

  ‘Only for honest men.’

  John smiled. ‘You are kind. Well then. I think it should be at night, no? Is the church locked at night?’

  ‘No, but certain gates and doors are. And there is a porter who patrols.’

  ‘But he should be easy to avoid since it is just one man. All it would take is watching the schedule of the man for a few nights.’

  ‘Just so. Or already knowing his schedule. Or perhaps even he was part of the plan.’ Crispin rose higher, looking closely at the chair, almost close enough to touch. He had seen Richard crowned in that chair, but he doubted he would see his heir so crowned. Whoever that heir might be. At the moment, that would be Roger Mortimer, Earl March, the king’s cousin. But Richard was young and healthy. He would certainly outlive Crispin. No, Richard’s was the only coronation he would ever see, and a regrettable one it was.

  ‘And so,’ John went on, ‘after knowing the schedule of this patrolling monk – assuming he wasn’t part of the crime – I should wait until it was very dark and very late and steal into the abbey. We would take the Stone from out of the chair …’

  ‘And replace it with one of plaster.’

  ‘And … oh. And replace it with one of plaster …’

  ‘Which contains a portion of explosive powder.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘It did.’

  John looked anew at the chair. ‘And then my foul compatriot and I would simply walk out the door with it.’

  ‘Put it on a wagon?’

  ‘That would be most expedient.’

  ‘And then simply cart it away. Anywhere.’ Crispin stumped down the steps again and breathed in the incense-infused air. He watched the taper burn in its sconce at one corner of the Confessor’s tomb. ‘It could be anywhere, John, and none of these damned Scotsmen know where the hell it is. But why? How did this so carefully laid plan become so muddled? Why wasn’t it accomplished?’

  ‘Perhaps it was. Perhaps there is a fourth faction.’

  Slowly, Crispin turned toward him. ‘God’s blood. You don’t suppose …’

  ‘For your sake, I hope it is not true.’

  He smacked his forehead and paced, his steps beating a cadence in dispersing echoes. ‘Why so many? Is it true? Did this Moray need to make certain that at least one of them would be successful? And yet. I had every impression that at least Deargh believed he was to carry out the rest of the plan. And he does not look to be a man to trifle with.’

  ‘But that is not necessarily so. You see, Crispin, when I am working on an embroidery – especially a complicated one – we use many seamstresses. We each have a part to play, whether it is finding and sorting the thread, or making certain we follow one another in the pattern so it all looks the same. We all must follow through or the whole thing is ruined.’

  Crispin studied John for a long time. So long it made John twitchy. He moved to Crispin’s other side and stared at the chair.

  ‘Then maybe something went wrong,’ said Crispin. ‘Deargh was supposed to get the Stone, but someone failed in their part of the plan.’

  ‘Failed in what way?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. No one seems to know.’

  John sighed. His chin was raised and his eyes scoured the lofty heights of the ceiling and fan vaults. ‘Then how are we ever to know?’

  ‘We must find a way to discover it. That is how this tracking is done.’

  He turned his gaze back to Crispin. ‘It’s very difficult, isn’t it? What you do?’

  ‘Yes, it can be.’

  ‘But you are very clever, very tenacious. And I won’t abandon you.’

  Crispin was touched more than he could say by John’s expression of fealty. He simply nodded rather than speaking, afraid his voice might crack. He moved on down the ambulatory and toward the crossing.

  The bells suddenly rang above them. He felt their deep resonance in his gut.

  Nearly Vespers. When had it gotten so late?

  ‘John, I think I need to speak with Abbot Colchester. It might be easier for me to question this monk alone. Would you mind?’

  ‘Oh. I see. Of course.’ He looked down at himself, at his woman’s clothes, partly torn and mostly muddy from his altercations. ‘I truly shouldn’t be here dressed as I am, should I? I … should go.’

  ‘Return to my lodgings, if you will. There … might be food in the pantry …’

  John smiled. ‘I might be able to help you there,’ he said, patting his scrip. He offered an encouraging expression before he turned and walked toward the colonnade of the north transept. Crispin watched him go, watched that willowy figure disappear into the gloom.

  He passed through the crossing and headed toward the south transept toward a door to the cloister. He could find someone to take him to the abbot’s lodgings. Even when he visited Abbot Nicholas, he had found an escort. It was simply good manners not to wander about in a monastery. But especially with the stoic Abbot Colchester, Crispin felt he needed that go-between.

  He was nearly at the door when he turned at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. Their drumbeat rang harshly on the tiled floor and echoed back louder and louder. He strained his eyes to see in the hazy light and saw a figure lit by the dim glow of the candles from the shrine. It stopped and he saw the head turn, searching. It seemed to spot him and tore forward, and it wasn’t long until he realized it was John Rykener.

  He skidded to a halt before Crispin, grasping his cotehardie with curled, trembling fingers. ‘Crispin! Crispin, you must come!’

  ‘What is it, John?’

  ‘Just … just come!’ He pushed away from him and ran back. Crispin followed, walking at first, then breaking into a run. He followed John’s swift retreat and slowed when Rykener stumbled to a stop with legs flailing. He seemed to be looking down at something.

  Once Crispin approached he could see it, too. A man was lying on the stone step of the north transept. Crispin knelt. Closer, he could plainly see that it was a monk. His tonsure shone bone-white in the fading sunlight, that which was not blood, for there was also a great gash in his scalp so deep that it showed a cracked skull and brain matter. A great
deal of blood was pooled about him, but with even a cursory look about, Crispin could tell this was no accident. There was nothing for him to bash his head upon on his own.

  John stepped away and retched into a corner. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered over and over. ‘Oh God, save us. Save us.’

  Avoiding the blood, Crispin maneuvered around the body to look at the face. Eyes wide, mouth agape, the monk had been surprised by his attacker. But Crispin was somehow not surprised at who it was. He would have liked to have talked to the monk one more time. But that was plainly impossible when Brother Crìsdean’s brains were scattered upon the floor.

  NINETEEN

  Abbot Colchester strode out of the shadows to stand before the body of his monk. ‘Master Guest,’ he said breathlessly, ‘who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘My Lord Abbot, I must speak with you alone. I was coming to you to do just that when we discovered the … your monk.’

  The abbot raised his eyes to Crispin. Usually, those blue eyes were cold, calculating how much to say, how much to dismiss. But now Crispin found them lost and muddled. The man had reasoned with popes and argued with dukes, but murder had never lain at his feet before this.

  The abbot nodded distantly. ‘Yes. Yes, we must talk. The sheriffs will be here soon. We must talk before they arrive.’

  And so, thought Crispin, the abbot was not as muddled as all that when he had kept the sheriffs and their interfering ways in mind.

  Colchester turned and walked back into the gloom, plainly expecting Crispin to follow. Before the abbot called to him, Crispin turned to John, who was clearly shaken by events. He took him firmly by the shoulders. ‘J—Eleanor! Are you listening?’

  Rykener blinked dazedly at Crispin. ‘Y-yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Go on back to my lodgings. I’ll meet you there. Can you do that?’

  John straightened, girded himself, and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Take all the time you need.’ He looked back at the body and shivered. ‘You must stop this terrible thing, Crispin,’ he whispered.