The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘And do you have a woman, Master Goat? Many, I’ll wager.’

  His cheeks felt even hotter. ‘Well now. I am a man of responsibilities. I haven’t the time to while away my days on trivialities.’

  ‘Trivialities?’ She feigned offense and took back her hand. ‘And so! A woman is nothing but trivial to you?’

  ‘The playing of coy games, demoiselle, is what I meant. But I am an honest lad. And when I give my heart, it is for keeping.’

  She gasped, forming her lips into an inviting ‘O.’ ‘Bless me,’ she said softly, moving closer. ‘Such a … charming thing to say.’

  ‘Aye. Well.’ He shuffled. He would like the sentiment to be true, and one day it would be. But for now … He leaned in with the objective of capturing those soft lips and Margaret seemed intent on letting him, when she suddenly pulled back.

  ‘You are wicked, Master Goat. You bewitch me.’

  ‘Not as much as you bewitch me,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Oh, but my lady is sore afraid. We must keep our minds on that.’

  ‘Our minds. Aye.’ Jack straightened his coat and blew out a breath. ‘So … Let me think this through. Queen Anne was in the church with all the rest.’

  ‘And I was there beside her.’

  ‘Aye. And she said that in all the confusion, you got pushed back.’

  ‘I shall never forgive myself.’

  ‘But I was there, too. There was the loud report, smoke, and much confusion. One could not be certain if there wasn’t a fire. Many tried to flee.’

  She shook out her veil, letting the soft material flutter over her shoulder, revealing a creamy, slender neck. ‘You were there?’

  ‘Er … aye. In the back.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ she said. A smile crept onto her face once more.

  She was far too beguiling for his thought processes. ‘Well then … her grace told me of those that were sitting with her. Oh! Perhaps you can help see me to the Keeper of the Jewels’ chamber.’ Lady Margaret might be a far better distraction than the beefy steward.

  ‘The Keeper of the Jewels? Why him?’

  He sidled closer. ‘Know you that the queen has lost a valuable brooch?’

  ‘Yes. But though he sat with us, he was nowhere near my lady.’

  He scratched his head, frowning. ‘But her grace told me that she was seated near the Keeper of the Jewels and that she was ushered forth by a guard who told her – in a northern dialect – that she was to come with him …’

  ‘Yes, the Keeper was near us but that is not what happened.’

  He stared at her anew. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I clearly recall. I had been shoved back by one of those gallant men scrambling to get themselves to safety,’ she said with a sneer. ‘But it wasn’t the king’s guard who spoke to her. It was the monk that was sitting beside my lady, he was the one who took her arm and told her to follow him. The monk with the northern brogue.’

  ‘The monk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack blinked. ‘Do you know the name of this monk?’

  ‘Of course. I remember it well because it was the same as the saint of Scotland. Andrew.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jack’s excitement made his hands shake. He clenched them into fists to steady them. ‘Was he a Westminster monk or one from your household here?’

  ‘That is difficult to say, for I did not see his face.’

  ‘So he could have been a household monk?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  He took her hands in his, and her eyes brightened with tenderness. ‘Lady Margaret, I must ask you to do me a great favor.’

  ‘Ask it,’ she said, breath coming faster.

  ‘For reasons I cannot now explain, I am not allowed to leave the palace. Can you go to Westminster and enquire about a Brother Andrew? If he is there or if he is not, get word to me through Lord Derby’s household. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, of course. And what will you do?’

  ‘I will see if he is not bound to St Stephen’s chapel. Thank you, Lady Margaret.’

  ‘Ah, Master Goat, I am so pleased it is you who is helping my lady. I know that all will end well.’

  ‘Your prayers on it would do me good.’

  He released her hands, but she stepped forward faster than he could prepare himself for, took his face in her hands, and planted a firm kiss to his lips.

  When she drew back, she wore a satisfied smile. ‘God be with you, fair Goat.’

  ‘And to you, Lady Margaret.’

  Jack watched her depart. She looked once more over her shoulder before she disappeared around the corner.

  He whistled low and hefted up his belt. ‘Jack, me lad. There’s something of Crispin Guest about you yet.’

  He shook his head. Business first. Looking around, he knew that St Stephen’s Chapel was in that direction and headed there. Still keeping his hood down, he arrived at the entrance and peered inside. Candles blared on the altar and in chandlers positioned down the nave. Penitents on their knees prayed silently, heads bowed over their clasped hands.

  Prayer seemed like a good idea, and he sent one skyward, flowing along with the scent of incense and the wispy smoke from the candles. He stepped inside and, finding the font, he dipped his fingers in and becrossed himself with the cold holy water. Just the touch of it calmed his thoughts and he ventured forward. Perhaps he could ask in the sacristy. He wasn’t all that familiar with the doings of churches. Not that he hadn’t spent time in them. As a former thief, he went often to church, but as he had done with Master Crispin all those days ago, he stayed in the back near the entrance. For though he had prayed hard to God and the saints, he didn’t want to call attention to himself by trying to push his way forward.

  He stood in the nave, thinking how he was to go about discovering who this Brother Andrew was. Eyes adjusting to the dark, he scanned the nave and rood screen. A monk knelt beneath the rood, and Jack screwed up his courage and carefully approached.

  ‘I beg pardon, Brother.’

  The monk slowly turned, looking Jack up and down.

  ‘I am looking for a particular monk. And I know not whether he belongs to Westminster or to St Stephen’s.’

  The monk blinked slowly. ‘Well then?’

  ‘He’s a northerner … a Scotsman, by the name of Andrew. Do you know him?’

  The monk’s brows flickered. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s very important. You see …’ Jack took a quick glance around and whispered, ‘It concerns the Stone of Destiny, the one from the Coronation Chair.’

  The monk’s eyes snapped open to the size of mazers. He shoved Jack so hard that Jack fell back on his bum. Like a rabbit on the run, the monk took off in loud slapping footfalls across the nave. Those in prayer lifted their heads to look. A woman shrieked as she leapt out of the way.

  Jack was on his feet in a heartbeat and gave chase.

  The monk escaped through a door. Jack arrived just as the door fell closed and he yanked it open, darted through, and skidded to a halt.

  He was in the cloister. An arcade with study carrels lay to his left with a greensward in the middle. He saw the feet and hems of many becassocked men in the carrels and no other sign of a running man.

  Jack wiped his sweaty palms down his coat. He took a cautious step forward and peered around the tall wooden back of the first carrel’s seat. A monk with dark hair and dark brows bending over a large tome looked up at him. ‘What are you doing here? The cloister is only for the brothers.’

  ‘Well … I …’

  The monk snapped the book closed with a thump and stood. ‘You must leave.’

  ‘But … but Brother, I …’

  He grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him toward the door.

  Jack squirmed. ‘There’s no need for that! Why is everyone always manhandling me?’

  But once they got to the door, a monk jumped up from one of the carrels and ran down the arcade in the opposite direction.

>   Jack swung, trying to go after him, but the monk held fast. ‘Everyone is in such a hurry today,’ the monk muttered. He opened the door and looked at Jack. ‘Out!’ He shoved and Jack stumbled over the threshold. Jack turned back toward the door but gave up when he heard a key turn in the lock.

  ‘That’s that, then.’ But didn’t cloisters have walls, like garden walls? He snapped his fingers and ran out of the church. There had to be a door to the outside. He hadn’t remembered passing one on his way through the corridors to the Great Hall, but surely there would be one.

  But he saw nothing. He’d have to go all the way around, through the Great Hall and outside.

  He hurried, remembering to hide his face with his hood. Through the Great Hall he went once more and out to the courtyard. It was a wide expanse, still full of people and the king’s guards. To keep his face turned away, he looked up at the outside of the Great Hall, pretending to admire its grandeur. When he saw he was clear of guards, he doubled his steps and turned the corner. There was the bell tower and then the walls to St Stephen’s cloister. He stood a moment, measuring them and looking for ways to scale it.

  A tree grew close to the wall about ten yards away and he made for it.

  Looking around for prying eyes, Jack quickly climbed the tree. A branch stretched over the space between trunk and arcade roof but didn’t quite reach. Even so, it would have to do. He crawled on his hands and knees across the branch till it got too thin. A good two yards to go. He got to his feet and wobbled unsteadily on the branch. With a quick prayer he took a breath and leaped.

  Rolling, he landed on the terracotta-tiled roof. A few tiles broke as he landed and he righted himself, but once he was secure, he crept to the peak and looked over. A good view of the cloister and carrels. But where had that sarding monk gone?

  He walked along the peak, crouching down in case he had to hide, going first toward the belfry and then turning round and heading toward the chapel.

  Wait. Was that him? ‘Oh, they all look alike!’ he muttered.

  A solitary monk passed through a door to a secreted space between the cloister arcade and St Stephen’s chapel, where the buttresses almost hid another man from view. He appeared to be waiting, and when the monk came through the door, the man squared his shoulders. He was tall, noble, and dark-haired, while the monk was slender, pale, and auburn-haired.

  The man looked about but seemed content that they were alone. ‘A fine clandestine meeting place.’

  Jack lay down on the tiles, barely peeking over the side so he could just glimpse them. He was grateful that the sound echoed and carried their voices quite clearly up to him.

  ‘Just as you would have it,’ said the monk in a distinct brogue. Got you! thought Jack.

  He was certain this time that the man’s accent was not from Yorkshire. Why was Westminster suddenly crawling with Scotsmen?

  Neither looked familiar – the man was a stranger and the monk wasn’t any he had known from Westminster – but they were plainly talking of what he needed to hear most.

  ‘I told you this was trouble,’ said the monk.

  ‘Och, you’re whingeing is tiresome, Brother,’ said the man.

  ‘It is not whingeing,’ said the monk. ‘Brother Crìsdean is dead and I do not intend to remain a target.’

  ‘A target, you say?’

  ‘Aye. I know it was one of the Mormaer’s men, but I don’t know who.’

  ‘You’re dreaming, Brother Andrew.’

  Jack squeaked in triumph and then slapped his hand over his mouth.

  ‘No, I’m not! I want protection. I want sanctuary!’

  The man snorted. ‘It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m damned,’ whispered the monk. ‘I never … I never should have …’

  ‘You’re being a woman about it, Brother. Calm yourself. You’re doing Scotland’s king a brave deed.’

  Jack perked up. He dug his foot into one of the tiles to get a better look and felt it loosen. Oh no! He slapped his other foot over his ankle, holding the tile fast, but he knew that it was slipping and, in his now twisted position, he did not know how long he could hold his place.

  ‘I fear, Laird McGuffin, that they will be after me next,’ the monk went on.

  ‘Listen to you. “After you next”? You have nothing to fear from these loyal men of Scotland, Brother. That’s rather disingenuous of you.’

  ‘Disingenuous?’ The man’s voice rang harsh in the echoing space. They both turned to look, but there was no one there. No one they could see, at any rate. Brother Andrew lowered his voice. ‘Tell that to Brother Crìsdean as they lower his body into the ground.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic.’

  ‘Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘I already told you. I have nae to do with the Stone of Destiny. My task was with the queen. Now. Have you something for me or not?’

  Jack’s eyes widened.

  Grumbling, the monk withdrew a small parcel from the pouch on his leather girdle and handed it over. ‘I now add thievery to my many sins.’

  ‘Best keep up with your prayers then, Brother.’ The one called McGuffin dropped the cloth-wrapped item into the pouch on his own belt and patted it. ‘You’ve done well.’

  The monk shook his head, seeming not to hear McGuffin’s praise. ‘I can’t go back. I don’t know who to trust. I had my orders but … but no one has contacted us. Only you. And with poor Crìsdean murdered …’

  ‘Looks like you have a problem.’

  Andrew whipped his head toward McGuffin and scowled. ‘Oh, I have a problem right enough. And so do you and your compatriots. Crìsdean wanted to give it up, wanted to tell all to the abbot. If it hadn’t been for … for his death, the whole game would be given away. And maybe it should have been.’

  ‘Now, now, Brother.’ McGuffin toyed with his cuffs. It looked as if he had already lost interest. ‘No need to lose heart now when all is so close to being achieved.’ He headed for the door.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have this thing hanging over you.’

  Andrew moved forward and caught him by the arm, but McGuffin looked down distastefully. ‘You should’na contact me again, Brother.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t. I should not have helped you. I should have cleaved to the plan. But you’ve a silver tongue, haven’t you?’

  ‘Brother Andrew, you’d best take this up with your laird.’

  ‘Maybe I shall. But I tell you this. It will be a dark day when I give up the Stone to just anyone. For it is secreted well and sound, and even an each-uisge himself canna find it. Just try to discover where the sarding Stone is now!’

  ‘Language, Brother!’

  The monk darted his gaze about the empty space and scowled. He pushed McGuffin out of the way and stomped away through the door.

  Uh oh. They were leaving. And Jack needed to follow. But the monk was delving deeper into the cloister, and the man was creeping through the door, through a short passage in the arcade and out to the chapel in the opposite direction.

  ‘God’s blood!’ Jack leaped up and ran back to the tree. The tile he had been holding in place slid down the roof’s incline and shattered on the courtyard below. He stood on the edge of the roof, windmilled his arms catching his balance, and leaped. He barely caught the branch and swung for a moment, measuring how far down the ground was – too far – but jumped anyway.

  He landed on a soft tuft of grass and rolled down the slight hill. Getting to his feet, he ran across the courtyard before he remembered himself and kept his head down and his legs moving swiftly but stiffly.

  Jack knew he had a problem. For no doubt the monk could lead him to the Stone. But even as he made his way across the endless courtyard and then up the steps to the Great Hall, he knew he’d soon lose the man who seemed to have the queen’s brooch.

  His honor and the queen, or the Stone and his life?

  ‘I didn’t think it would be so hard being a Track
er.’

  Just as he made it to the archway, a gaggle of female courtiers blocked the way. Jack hung back, bobbing on the balls of his feet. Silently, he prayed that they would hurry, but he couldn’t very well plow through these noble ladies. When finally there was an opening, he darted through the hall, got to the corridor between the hall and St Stephens, and looked both ways.

  The monk was gone, lost in the cloister.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  But then he spied McGuffin moving past him from the chapel, making long-legged strides toward the Great Hall. Well, better this than nothing.

  He hurried forward to just behind the man. He passed again over the tiles of the great expanse, dodging the pillars, ignoring the fluttering of banners and the fact that once his master’s banner had hung there just as proudly as the others.

  The man called McGuffin moved swiftly and steadily ahead of him. He matched strides.

  He’d cut hundreds of purses in his day. There was no telling how many. And he’d saved baubles and coins from all those purses for his retirement. Master Crispin had not made him donate them to the alms box, for he had understood about a man’s need to put something aside for his old age, and he told Jack that he even admired him for such industry … though he made it clear that Jack was not to add to that cache. Not by thievery at any rate. And he hadn’t. Only with his wages, which were poor indeed, but Master Crispin had done the best he could on that score. Jack could hardly complain when he had a roof over his head, food in the larder, and clothes on his back.

  He rubbed his hands together. It had been years since he’d cut a purse. And a lad who was out of practice could easily get himself caught. He prayed to the Virgin for help and to keep his fingers nimble and his knife sharp.

  The man slowed to survey the courtyard. He seemed to sweep his gaze from one end of it to the next. And there was a smug smile on his face. So! He thought he could best the king by this coercion, this thievery of virtue. And he was clearly a compatriot of those who had stolen the Stone. Jack had been right about that, at least.

  Gloat, then, thought Jack. It’s your last chance.