Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  “What did they want?”

  “That you ring them up—immediately, they said, Mr. Trentham.”

  “What is it about?”

  “They didn’t say, sir. Only that it was most urgent, and that I must get word to you without delay. I brought your horse.”

  “Yes . . . I see that . . . thank you,” replied Andrew. “How did you find me?”

  “Your father saw you strike out across the hill earlier in the afternoon, sir,” the groom replied. “And your mother remembered that you might be coming here.”

  Andrew took the reins, glancing once more about for some sign of Duncan. He would have to pay a return visit at the earliest opportunity.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pen and hastily scribbled a note, which he handed to the groom, with instructions to leave it in a safe place for the old man. Then, his thoughts still preoccupied with the ancient Celt and with his neighbor, the Scotsman of more recent pedigree, Andrew grasped the leather firmly and swung himself into the saddle. The next instant he wheeled his mount around and hastened off downhill, around the Bewaldeth Ridge, and across the heath toward Derwenthwaite Hall.

  Two

  Member of Parliament Andrew Trentham looked to the right and left along Bridge Street, then dashed into the open space between two oncoming cars.

  The traffic, noise, and hubbub of the city contrasted with the quiet of Cumbria even more sharply than usual, he thought.

  A glance toward Winston Churchill’s bronze presence across the street in Parliament Square silently reminded him of the solemnity of his duty as he made his way toward the imposing Palace of Westminster, where the Houses of Parliament were located. He would check there briefly first, then get back to his office in the Norman Shaw building.

  Andrew loved London no less than Cumbria. He enjoyed his life here. He functioned in the very hub of Britain’s affairs, even the world’s. Something about his truncated visit to his northern home, however, had pricked more deeply than usual. The walk up Bewaldeth and the pleasurable hours spent reliving the trek of the Wanderer had made him less than eager to resume the city’s pace.

  So much, it seemed, had come all at once—the breaking of his relationship with Blair, the theft of the Coronation Stone from the Abbey, old Duncan’s curious statement about what made a Scot a Scot. And the stories . . . the maiden of Glencoe, the tale of the Wanderer.

  His brain was full of many new things. And now had come this shocking news which had shortened his visit to Duncan’s cottage.

  For the dozenth time Andrew replayed in his brain the fateful telephone conversation following his ride back from MacRanald’s cottage.

  “Mr. Hamilton is dead,” had come the numbing words.

  “What . . . Eagon?” said Andrew in disbelief.

  “Eagon Hamilton is dead, sir,” his secretary had repeated. “Most of the other party members are here . . . everyone is returning immediately.”

  “But . . . what happened?”

  “No one knows, sir. A heart attack, they say.”

  “Heart attack? Eagon was fit and feisty as a Highland bull!”

  “Yes, sir . . . Scotland Yard has released no further details.”

  “Scotland Yard!” Andrew had exclaimed. “What do they have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I think you had better come back to London as soon as possible.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” he had stammered. “I’ll drive to Carlisle this afternoon and catch the overnight train.”

  Andrew had set down the receiver, stunned at the news, and slumped into the nearest chair, where his father found him motionless a few minutes later. Soberly he recounted the news to the two elder Trenthams. After an early light tea with his parents, he had been on the road by five.

  Yet even as he hurried back to the city for the investigation—if Scotland Yard was sniffing around, what else could it legitimately be called?—and to help, if he could, with plans for Hamilton’s funeral, Andrew felt that he was leaving something important behind.

  His reflections as he walked toward the Houses of Parliament were interrupted by a voice he recognized only too well.

  “Mr. Trentham! Mr. Trentham. If I could just have a moment of your—”

  “I just arrived back in the city, Luddington,” Andrew interrupted the reporter running toward him, microphone in hand, followed by a cameraman doing his best to keep up.

  “I won’t take more than—”

  “I’m sorry—I know nothing,” Andrew replied firmly. He stepped up his pace several notches. He was in no frame of mind for an interview. “The leader of my party is dead. Beyond that, I don’t know a thing.”

  “But if I could only—”

  “I’ll have a statement for you tomorrow.”

  With those words, Andrew brushed past the persistent correspondent, showed his identification to the guard at the gate, and walked briskly on toward the Palace and inside.

  Three

  The late afternoon’s memory of the setting sun still glowed pink and red at the horizon, though most of the low-lying valleys and dales of the mountainous Cumbrian countryside were already enshrouded in the shadows of approaching night.

  It had been a remarkably lovely day for late winter, thought Duncan MacRanald as he set down the final load of wood next to the large open fireplace. He sighed and looked over his stores. Plenty of logs and peat for another two weeks.

  He straightened his aging but sturdy frame, and walked outside again for a final look at the remnants of the gloaming before it gave way entirely to nightfall.

  His was a constitution that could scarcely have been more suitably reflective of the land of his ancestors. There was nothing the man could be but a Scot.

  His features seemed hewn out of the rocky granite of the Highlands, as if its mountains had grown him of themselves, just as many of the ancient castles and fortresses of the region appeared to have naturally emerged out of rather than been built on top of the stones that comprised their foundations.

  MacRanald’s eyes had seen a great deal and had grown wise from the season of waiting. In the economy of man’s earthly sojourn, they were not quite yet ancient eyes, for MacRanald was still three years short of fourscore. But they were old enough to have learned to look forward as well as back, safeguarding their aspirations in silence—hoping not for vindication of past wrong, as did Glencoe’s peaks . . . but for fulfillment of future dreams.

  Notwithstanding the pleasant hours just past, Duncan thought, it would be chilly tonight. Unless his nose betrayed him, the wind would shift before morning. A storm was likely hurrying this way even now.

  MacRanald’s mood, as if drawn by recent physical proximity, had remained gathered all day around his famous young friend. If he did possess any scant quantity of the Glencoe maiden’s ability to sense things beyond the ken of normal men and women, such a second sight had no doubt been activated by Andrew’s presence both yesterday and the month before.

  Seeing Andrew again had kindled many memories in the heart of the aging shepherd.

  Duncan had himself romped these hillsides and woodlands and explored its streams and pathways and lakes and hidden caves many years ago with Andrew’s father, Harland. Duncan had grown up in this very cottage, the only son of an elderly Scots man and woman who had done what they could to keep love of all things Scottish alive in their son. They had married late and were gray by the time Duncan’s earliest visions began to gather vaporously about them into definable memories.

  Duncan’s mother had served Lady Kimbra Trentham as had her mother served Lady Ravyn a generation earlier. Such service, however, was carried out in a steadily reduced capacity as the years progressed, for the former Victorian English lady had brought her own maids to Derwenthwaite after marrying Andrew’s great-grandfather Bradburn, only four years before the end of the great queen’s long reign. In former times, even further back in the previous century, Duncan’s people had resided at the estate after coming fro
m Scotland with Lady Gordon for her marriage in 1866 to John Trentham. But as English blood came to predominate in the modern Trentham pedigree, the onetime bond between the aristocratic family and their loyal Scots servants had steadily been lost to the sight of the former, although Duncan’s father had continued to be provided the cottage rent free, out of respect for the past and in exchange for what limited services might still be required of a gamekeeper for the estate.

  Duncan had grown up not exactly alongside, but in proximity to Harland Trentham. Their playful childhood friendship, however, had gone the way of many such, fading with the passage of time.

  Andrew’s father had gone south to boarding school during the war, then embarked early on the career that followed—not a particularly distinguished one, but one that certainly proceeded along normal and expected pathways. Later in his life he would become known more as the husband of the feisty MP Waleis Trentham than for his own name and accomplishments. He and Duncan scarcely saw each other now, though he like his father before him allowed the cottage to remain in the MacRanald family rent-free.

  By the present era, no one at the Hall exactly remembered the reason for the connection between the family Trentham and the final remaining unmarried scion of the MacRanalds. Andrew’s father was the only one alive whose roots extended far enough back to make him privy to whatever information existed. But he scarcely remembered his own father and mother speaking a word about it.

  Four

  The same pinks and reds glowed down over the snow-covered mountains that overlooked the valley of Glencoe. In the north, however, they had mostly by now given way to purples and deep blues that would soon be black.

  The man driving through the lonely darkness had planned to meet his seductive colleague here, when the dust settled from both the election and Scotland Yard’s investigation, to celebrate privately as well as to plan what should come next. The sudden death of their unwitting Irish Liverpudlian associate had thrown a new wrinkle into the scenario, although it might not change much in the long run. Still, they needed to talk.

  He had notified her when he would arrive, but had received no confirming reply. Nor had he been able to reach her since. A gnawing suspicion or two had crossed his mind, but he had quickly dismissed them.

  It was cold by the time Baen Ferguson arrived at the cottage. He was looking forward to the fire and tea Fiona would doubtless have prepared for him.

  As he drove up the lonely mountain road, however, no sign of life was evident. No lights shone from the windows. No smoke rose from the chimney.

  He parked the car and approached the cottage. It was nearly dark now. The door was locked.

  He opened it and went inside. Cold lifelessness met his face. He felt the chilly stale odor of nonuse on his skin and in his nostrils. He turned on the light.

  A quick glance told him the place had remained unvisited since their visit the previous November.

  Now for the first time a premonition of deception seized him. She should have been here a week or two ago with their prize. Even if she had been delayed, she should certainly be here now.

  Suddenly memory upon memory of Fiona’s face returned to him. He had tried to convince himself that she loved him. Had he been a fool all along? Suddenly he could see cunning and duplicity in those eyes.

  He spun around. His hand crashed down violently on the table as an angry oath exploded from his lips in the night air. A great rage filled him—both at himself and at Fiona and whomever she might be involved with.

  What was her game? he wondered. Whatever it was, he would get to the bottom of it! If she had set him up, this would not be the end of it. And if she had—

  Ferguson’s brain was reeling now.

  —what if she planned all along to implicate him in the theft?

  He turned on his heel. There was no use his hanging around. There was nothing here for him now. Besides, if she had double-crossed him, she might at the same time have put Scotland Yard on his tail.

  He had to find out where she had disappeared to. And what had become of the others. And the Stone . . . there was no sign of it here. Had she never intended to bring it at all?

  He flipped off the light and stormed from the house—and was soon driving recklessly down the mountain through the night.

  Five

  After the death of his own parents, Duncan MacRanald had been left to tend his sheep, help neighboring farmers with their animals, and enjoy his solitary peace . . . and hope for opportunity to carry out the familial charge as best he could in the life of the next younger in the Trentham line.

  Duncan could still hear his mother’s words.

  “Ye maun serve the bairns hooe’er ye can, my son, as I hae aye done these mony a year t’ their father an’ his brither, though they didna pay muckle heed t’ the auld stories nor the auld ways.”

  The imperative of her words was never far from the mind of the aging Scotsman. Through the years of Andrew Trentham’s childhood, MacRanald had tried to honor her charge by planting curiosity, wonder, and a hunger for ancient times.

  “Ne’er forget the auld tales . . . ne’er forget the auld homeland,” persisted his mother’s voice in Duncan’s memory. “They maunna forget. ’Tis oor heritage, an’ that o’ the wee bairns too. They maunna forget.”

  He knew young Andrew had been far away, about his country’s business. But the moment he had laid eyes on him several weeks ago, he had felt the lad was at last ready to know more of his roots. He hoped the moment was now at hand that the old tales would begin to work their magic upon Andrew’s full-grown consciousness.

  The water was hot, thought Duncan, glancing toward the kettle that hung above the fire. A second pot, hanging from another hook, contained boiling potatoes. Andrew’s grandfather had had electricity installed for them in the cottage forty years ago. But Duncan still boiled water for tea, potatoes, and oatmeal as his people had for centuries. He would keep the past alive by whatever means were possible.

  A few minutes later everything was ready. He bent his head in a few moments of quiet thankfulness to his Lord as the source of all provision and pleasure. He then opened his eyes and proceeded to enjoy what he considered the second-best of the great “high teas” known to man. In his mind, it was surpassed only by that simpler and therefore highest high tea of all, comprised of but two chief components: oatcakes with butter, and tea with sugar and milk.

  The austerity of his lifestyle was entirely a matter of Duncan MacRanald’s own choosing. In truth, he was well able to afford whatever he might want, given that his tastes were humble and that he preferred simplicity over luxury. The Trenthams had been generous to his family, and the latter had taken care to wisely use what came to it over the years. As a result, Duncan wanted for nothing in the way of pleasure or comfort.

  He was known throughout Cumbria as a man honest as he was shrewd in any and all things having to do with sheep and the wool they produced. Thus, what appeared little more than an old crofter’s cottage and a few dozen acres of land to go with it had in fact, through the years, been a relatively thriving little shearing, dyeing, and veterinary enterprise. Because his needs were so simple, however, Duncan MacRanald had probably given away more than he had spent on himself.

  When supper was past, Duncan cleared the few things from the table, then poured out the final cup of tea from the cooling pot and sat down in his favorite chair in front of the same hearth whose aromatic smoke had drawn Andrew to his very doorstep a month or so earlier.

  His reflections still circulated about Andrew Trentham . . . Andrew Gordon Trentham, Duncan added to himself. How often had the boy sat right here, in front of this very fireplace, just as they had yesterday, staring into it just as he was now, listening fascinated to stories of the old land?

  It took time to know and appreciate roots. Now Duncan found himself silently praying murmurs of thanks that such a time had apparently come.

  “Thank ye, Lord, fer the friendship ye’ve given me with the lad, an’
that he’s come t’ sich esteem in th’ world, without harm bein’ dune his character. Du yer work in him, Lord. Draw his hert t’ yer own. An’ when he comes t’ ken his roots, help him t’ see that ye’re the Father o’ us all.”

  Slowly, after a minute or two, Duncan rose and threw two more logs and another peat brick into the fire. He stood, slowly gazing around at the four walls of this, the largest room of the cottage.

  He approached his bookshelf. There were not many volumes here. But what treasures!

  He reached up and reverently drew down the same worn and ancient history that had kept Andrew entranced for much of yesterday afternoon. He thumbed casually through its pages, every leaf filling him with nostalgia for bygone days.

  Moving through the book as if centuries were passing under his hands, he paused over a large woodcut drawing of a towering figure of a man, clutching a sword most mortals would scarcely be capable of lifting.

  Slowly a smile spread across his face.

  “Eh, Bruce,” he whispered. “Ye’re still, for a’ that an’ a’ that, the greatest Caledonia’s e’er seen.”

  He paused, then added, “When will we see yer likes again?”

  A moment more he gazed at the drawing, in a silence that hovered in the shadowlands between awe and reverence. He set the book back in its resting place on the shelf.

  Lifting down two or three others, he returned to the hearth and eased again into his chair to enjoy the renewed crackling cheerfulness of the fire and the fellowship of the authors whose companionship he had selected for the evening.

  An hour passed. Duncan’s eyelids began to grow heavy. He dozed, fought the sleep away, read again, dozed again, and finally slept in earnest.

  The fire in the hearth burned low. Duncan awoke from his snooze. All around the cottage the wind whistled and whipped about.

  “Ay,” he muttered, rousing himself to groggy wakefulness. “I kenned it was comin’.”

  With an effort he set aside the books and struggled to his feet, then ambled slowly toward his small bedroom.