The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  John gave him a meaningful look before slumping away. His steps grew steadier and faster as he hurried out into the early evening.

  Crispin took a calming breath and trotted after the abbot.

  He followed him not to the chapter house but to his lodgings, that all too familiar passage between cloister and out buildings. His predecessor, Abbot Nicholas, often had Crispin as a guest, where they played chess and drank wine and talked of politics and philosophy. He missed those days, missed the old monk and his wise advice. And wondered still at his deathbed words: ‘You must forget what you think you know … Beware of what you find …’

  Brother John Sandon scrambled forward, hoisting a lantern. It cast a glow over his worried countenance as he ushered Crispin forth into the chamber, barely after Colchester’s steps.

  The abbot did not sit calmly behind his desk as Crispin had seen once before, but instead paced, his fingers on his lips, eyes fixed a few steps before him.

  Crispin stood, watching him until the man came to a halt on the other side of the room. Looking back at Crispin, the abbot’s face was pulled taut with strain. ‘This is no mere coincidence, is it, Master Guest?’

  ‘No, Lord Abbot.’

  ‘Christ preserve us,’ he muttered. He dragged himself toward a chair by the hearth and sank into it. There used to be a similar chair beside it, one Crispin had occupied many a time with Abbot Nicholas, but the chair had been moved in favor of a small table and a chand-ler. A Psalter lay on the table, a ribbon marking the place where the reader had left it. There was no dog lying before the hearth either. Nicholas’s greyhound, Sturdy, had left this earth not long after his master had.

  Soft steps behind him made Crispin turn. Brother John had brought a folding chair and was placing it not too far from the little table. He gestured for Crispin to sit, and with a nod of thanks, Crispin did.

  The abbot had encaged his face in his fingers, eyes closed. Perhaps he prayed. Perhaps he merely contemplated the horror of murder. Crispin waited respectfully as long as he could before saying, ‘My Lord Abbot, we must talk.’

  Colchester lowered his hand from his face and watched the flames rise and flicker in the hearth. ‘Speak, Master Guest.’

  ‘How well did you know Brother Crìsdean?’

  ‘Not well. He was fairly new to the abbey. Less than six months now.’

  ‘And was he the only brother who cared for the Coronation Chair?’

  ‘No. He had assistants. There are few monks in our monastery that are alone at their tasks. We have so many souls here, you see.’ He sighed. ‘So many souls.’

  ‘Then … it might be prudent for me to speak with them as well. I had come back to see if Crìsdean would now speak to me. I find that a threat is more than enough to extract the guilt from a man. But, as we saw, I was too late.’

  The abbot looked up suddenly. ‘Do you think … someone overheard you? Do you think that someone wished to stop Brother Crìsdean from confessing?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  His gasp was somewhat of a surprise. Crispin didn’t think Colchester was given to fits of astonishment. ‘Your apprentice Master Tucker. What will become of him?’

  A spike of fear jabbed his heart, as it always did at the mention of Jack. ‘So far he is well. But as you know, if I do not find the Stone by tomorrow …’

  ‘God will help you, Master Guest. Your cause is just.’

  If only He could do so a little faster. Aloud he said, ‘Indeed, Lord Abbot. And so I am here at the beginning where it happened. If I could speak with those brothers …’

  The abbot snapped his fingers and Brother John appeared from wherever it was he had been waiting. ‘Gather Brother Crìsdean’s assistants. Have them come here in all haste, Brother.’

  The monk bowed and scurried out to comply.

  The abbot dropped his face in his hand again and, with his expression masked, said, ‘Perhaps you can fetch us a cup of wine, Master Guest. I suspect you know where it is.’

  Crispin rose to comply. The wine was where expected – on the sideboard – and he poured from the silver flagon into two awaiting goblets, also of silver. He took the first and handed it to the abbot with a bow before returning to his seat to wait for the monks.

  He marked the time by how low his wine was, how the fire diminished, and the light from the window as it changed from angled beams to dusky shadows.

  The door opened, and he set down his cup and stood to face the monks.

  Three men huddled together. One wept openly, the youngest, while the other two – both middle-aged men – kept their eyes lowered.

  Abbot William rose slowly, like an old man. He slipped his hands within his scapular and nodded to his charges. ‘My brothers, no doubt you have heard about the tragic end of our own Brother Crìsdean.’

  ‘I can scarce believe it,’ wailed the younger monk, eyes red, face streaked with wet.

  ‘God have mercy, it is true,’ answered the abbot, becrossing himself again.

  ‘But I had only just talked to him, not more than half an hour ago,’ said one of the older monks.

  ‘And where was that, Brother?’ asked Crispin. A time of death would surely help.

  The monk merely studied Crispin, eyes darting between him and his abbot.

  ‘This is Crispin Guest, Brothers. You are to answer his questions as if I asked them.’

  They all bowed.

  ‘And so I ask again, Brother—?’

  ‘Jerome, Master Guest. Brother Crìsdean and I were checking on the stores of beeswax and oil. This we use for the polishing of wood. The quire stalls, the carrels in the cloister, staircase balusters … so many places where the wood must be cared for.’

  ‘I see. And where was this?’

  ‘In the stores room.’

  ‘And … did anyone else see you there together?’

  Brother Jerome blinked. ‘I … do not understand your meaning, Master Guest.’

  ‘He means,’ said Abbot William, ‘are there witnesses to your being together at such a place at such a time?’

  ‘Witnesses? You surely do not think … you do not accuse …’

  ‘Of course not, Brother Jerome,’ said Crispin. ‘It is merely to make certain of the time and incident.’

  Jerome’s expression had not lost its huffiness but he grudgingly answered, ‘Yes. As a matter of fact there was. Brother Andrew.’

  Crispin scanned the faces of the other monks. ‘Which is Brother Andrew? Is he an assistant as well?’

  ‘Yes. He could not be readily found. Perhaps he is preparing for Vespers.’

  ‘How did Brother Crìsdean seem to you, Brother Jerome? Was he calm? Agitated?’

  ‘I would say he was greatly agitated. His hand trembled so much that I asked him what the matter was. He kept muttering that he never should have had some sort of responsibility. And then suddenly he looked up at me and nodded. “Yes,” he said, seeming to decide something. “I shall go to the abbot at once.” And that was the last I saw of him.’

  Crispin turned to the other two. ‘And did either of you see Brother Crìsdean any later than half an hour ago?’

  Both shook their heads.

  ‘So sometime within the last half hour, Brother Crìsdean was dispatched,’ muttered Crispin.

  The youngest monk wailed again. ‘Must you speak so callously of one of our own, Master Guest? He was mentor, brother, and father to me.’

  ‘Yet you scarcely knew him,’ said the other monk.

  ‘Eh?’ asked Crispin.

  The other older monk stepped forward. ‘I am Brother Lewis. Brother Crìsdean has been with us a mere four months.’

  ‘A faithful cleric can do much within a briefer amount of time, Brother Lewis,’ said the younger monk, sniffing.

  ‘Brother Harold, you attach yourself where you should not. The Rule stipulates that no friendships should be established …’

  The abbot raised his hands. ‘Brothers, pl
ease.’

  Brother Lewis stuffed his hands impatiently within his sleeves. ‘Lord Abbot, it is proper to remind our younger brothers of the Rule.’

  ‘But more fitting in chapter, is it not?’

  They all fell silent at his admonishment.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the abbot continued, ‘now is not the time to berate. We have lost a brother in a most grievous manner, and Master Guest is here to assist us. Pray, Master Guest, what do you construe from this information?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need more than this,’ said Crispin. ‘Where did Brother Crìsdean come from prior to his assignment here?’

  Abbot William shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Brother John, do fetch Brother Thomas Merke. He keeps the records of the abbey,’ he said to Crispin. ‘He can tell us.’

  Brother John escaped again and Crispin looked over the three monks. ‘Is this other monk, this Brother Andrew, also one of Crìsdean’s assistants?’

  ‘He is,’ answered Jerome. ‘He is a true alchemist, mixing the compounds for cleaning the wood and for supervising the soap-making.’

  Alchemist enough to know how to use explosive powder?

  ‘Then I shall also need to speak to him,’ he said to Colchester. ‘How did the rest of you fare with Brother Crìsdean?’

  They exchanged glances with one another. ‘As well as anyone,’ said Brother Lewis. ‘We are all brothers here, working for the community.’

  Crispin shuffled his feet, keeping his eyes withdrawn. ‘That isn’t exactly what I asked.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jerome after a pause, ‘Brother Crìsdean could be … how should one say?’

  ‘One mustn’t speak ill of the dead, Brother Jerome,’ said Lewis.

  ‘I am not speaking ill of him!’ He ruffled his scapular. ‘I am merely pointing out a truth.’

  ‘And that truth is?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘That Brother Crìsdean was snappish. And aloof.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ cried Harold. His tears seemed to have abated at last, but he still dragged his hand over his eyes. ‘It was merely that he didn’t understand our ways. He was from the north, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I did detect the accent,’ said Crispin. ‘I wonder if—’

  Brother John returned with another monk, Brother Thomas. He had a ledger and a roll of parchments under one arm. ‘This is all most distressing,’ he said to no one in particular. He bowed to the abbot and then looked toward Crispin. Crispin had met him before when the abbot was first installed.

  The abbot gestured toward the bundle under Thomas’s arm. ‘Are those the records, Brother?’

  Thomas hurried to Colchester’s desk and laid the parchments on the surface. Carefully he began to unroll. ‘Yes, my Lord Abbot. I grabbed what I could and began looking through the records after they were requested and then decided to bring them all. Brother John here says that Brother Crìsdean came to us approximately four months ago.’

  All the monks nodded their heads.

  Brother Thomas licked his fingers as he thumbed through parchment after parchment. ‘My Lord Abbot, I have checked and rechecked and it appears …’ He let the parchments go and they fell back together on the table. He sighed and threw up his hands. ‘My lord, I cannot find a record of him at all.’

  The abbot drew back. ‘What?’ He rushed to the table and thumbed through the parchments himself. His fingers followed the entries made; he read line after line. He shuffled more, looking at the bottom of the pile and then each subsequent. ‘Are all the papers here, Brother?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, including the ledger there’ – he pointed to a leather-bound book tied with a leather thong. He shook his head. ‘But I cannot find record of him. It’s as if he … he just appeared here.’

  Abbot William scoured the frightened faces of his monks. ‘Can anyone recall when he arrived? Come now. Surely someone knows.’

  They exchanged looks again, the three. ‘He … he arrived at the refectory at supper,’ said Jerome. ‘I recall that. He sat beside me. Afterwards, we talked and he discussed his new assignment caring for the Coronation Chair.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Brother Harold with an anxious twitch. ‘He came to me and asked me to assist him and soon I was assigned there.’

  ‘Who assigned you?’ asked Brother Thomas.

  ‘Why, it was … it was …’ He stared at the floor, thinking. ‘I do not recall, Brother. I was told. By … Brother Crìsdean.’

  Everyone fell silent.

  ‘It appears,’ said Crispin, ‘that this scheme has been plotted for a very long time.’

  The abbot glared at the parchments again. His expression was one Crispin had never seen him wear. Always he was the most measured and decorous. Now his eyes were somewhat wild. ‘But how can such a thing be?’

  Crispin glanced at the tiny careful writing on the parchments. ‘With so many monks here it would take a clever man, one with the courage to carry through on such a daring enterprise. He may not have even been a monk at all.’

  Harold gasped and threw his hands over his mouth.

  Abbot William clenched his fists. ‘I would speak with Brother Andrew.’

  ‘I shall see to it at once!’ said Thomas and ran from the room.

  The abbot in his rage turned on Crispin. His nostrils flared with each blasting breath. ‘This is outrageous! How could this have happened?’

  ‘It is not the fault of any of your clerics, my lord. As I said, a clever and devious man need only force himself amongst you.’

  ‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ seethed the abbot. He marched to the hearth and stood over it, leaning with his arm on the stone mantel. ‘How dare he?’

  ‘If he was in the employ of who I think he was, then the stakes were very high. And he was paid very well. But somehow, he needed to be silenced.’

  ‘He has paid the penalty for his foul deeds on this earth. God will mete out proper punishment as he stands in judgment.’

  Crispin said no more. He waited again to talk to this Brother Andrew.

  It took a long time. The bells for Vespers had long ago rung, but none of the monks moved. The abbot was particularly still, a statue staring into the fire, barely lifting his chest to breathe.

  When at last Thomas returned he was sweaty and out of breath. The monks gathered around him. Even the abbot turned anxiously.

  ‘We checked and rechecked, my lord,’ said Thomas. ‘But Brother Andrew is not here.’

  ‘Impossible,’ sputtered the abbot.

  Crispin rested his hand on his knife hilt. If Brother Andrew was not present in the abbey then that meant one of two things. That he was missing because he, too, was murdered like Crìsdean and his body secreted somewhere.

  Or … because he himself was a murderer.

  TWENTY

  Jack listened to the church bells all the next morning until the sun climbed higher. First Prime, then Terce. The guilt from his actions weighed heavily on him. He would not be the cause of the king’s wrath borne down on Henry or even Lady Katherine. And in the midst of it he pictured Master Crispin’s disappointed face. He had never beaten Jack as other masters did their apprentices. His stoic silences were far worse, berating with a mere look and a discontented sigh. How Jack flayed himself because of those expressions!

  But his promise burned fiercely within him, too. For the queen sorely needed his help, and he had vowed to give it. What would Master Crispin do?

  Jack stared at the locked door and up at the small window above his head. The glass sat in its own chamfered niche but was not made to open, only to give light. He would have to break it to climb out of it, if he could squeeze through, which he doubted he could.

  The door, then. But it was locked from the outside. But was the key in the door? He knelt and put his eye to the keyhole. ‘Damn!’ He could see clearly through the hole, which meant no key. And he could see a servant approaching with a tray. His stomach growled. It had been a while since he ate. He was relieved that he would not starve to death.


  But wait! The servant was to unlock the door. Jack concentrated and expelled a ‘Ha!’ when the idea came to him. He lifted up his coat, grabbed the hem of his chemise and fiddled with the edge. Quickly slipping his knife free of its sheath, he sliced a thin length of material from the shirt, returned his coat and knife to their places, and wadded up the material in his fist just as the door opened.

  The servant poked his head in. ‘Sorry, Jack. Master Waterton was tardy in telling us where you were. I thought you’d need a little food about now.’

  ‘Ah, Hubert. I knew you wouldn’t forget me, lad.’

  Hubert moved into the room and set down his tray. On it was a bowl with slices of cold fowl, boiled onions, and sprigs of borage. A good-sized beaker of ale was there as well. Hubert, a lank boy, younger than Jack with a spotty chin and cheeks, smiled and wiped his hands down his tabard. ‘Wouldn’t forget you.’

  Jack liked the boy and didn’t want to get him into trouble, but it had to be done. With his hands behind his back and his back to the door, Jack casually crept closer to the lock. In his fingers he shredded the material and wadded it up good and tight. When he touched the lock at his fingertips, he felt for the lock hole and stuffed the wadding in, pushing it tight against the bolt spring.

  ‘Am I to be locked in the whole day?’

  Hubert’s smiled faded. ‘Well … that’s what Master Waterton says. It’s a shame is what it is, Jack. Why are you kept a prisoner here anyway?’

  ‘It’s a long tale, lad. One I may not be at liberty to say. But know this. I would not have harm come to Lord Henry or any of his retinue, including you, Hubert.’

  ‘I know that, Jack. Everyone knows that.’

  He sighed. ‘Not Master Waterton. He was right angry with me.’

  ‘You caused a stir, there’s no denying it.’ He smiled again. ‘Never a dull moment in Lord Derby’s employ.’

  ‘Nor in the Tracker’s either.’

  Hubert moved close to Jack and Jack pulled his hands away hastily from the lock. ‘You promised to tell me about more of your adventures with Master Guest.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But, er, I would not keep you from your duties. Master Waterton has a sharp eye.’