The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Not by context.’ Crispin tore a hunk of bread from the stale loaf placed in the center of the table, crumbled it into the broth, and scooped it hastily with his spoon. ‘We’ll need to ask Domhnall its meaning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this might be the clue as to where it is.’ He spooned more of the meaty broth and slurped it up.

  ‘Slow down, Master Guest, or you’ll choke.’ Just as he said it, Crispin coughed.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ he said, clearing his throat.

  John looked surprised and clasped his hands. ‘Do you want me to come?’

  ‘Well.’ Crispin stirred the sops about in his bowl without lifting the spoon. ‘You are clever and I could use your help.’

  ‘Even dressed as a woman?’

  Crispin scowled into his bowl. ‘Make yourself ready or I will change my mind.’

  It didn’t take long for them each to finish and for John to dress. And there he was again, transformed into ‘Eleanor.’ Crispin shook his head at it. He had buckled on his sword, locked his door, and followed John down the stairs. ‘I don’t know how you—’

  But they were met at the bottom step by Alice Kemp, his landlord’s shrewish wife. Her face was screwed up and red, and she sidled up to block his path with her plump frame.

  ‘Aha! I have caught you in the act of your sin. How dare you parade your strumpet down my stairs in the light of day!’

  ‘Madam,’ Crispin growled in warning.

  But John pushed him aside and squared with Alice. ‘What did you call me? I demand an apology!’

  Crispin intervened. ‘John … erm, Eleanor!’

  ‘No, Crispin. This woman has accosted me in the streets. The streets! And I demand an apology. She knows me not. She does not know whether I am a client, a cousin, or your new wife and has caused a scene for her own vainglory.’ He tossed his head, causing his braids to swing aside.

  Martin the tinker skidded around the corner and took in Crispin, John, and his wife. ‘Alice! What goes on here? Why are you harassing Master Guest?’

  ‘Just look. Look, Martin!’ She shoved a sweaty pink hand toward Crispin and John. ‘Look what he does in the light of day without a care in the world for his soul or the good character of our household.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Martin in tight conciliatory tones, ‘you don’t know who this lady is or the manner of their coming and going. You know very well that Master Guest must entertain all sorts of clients at all times of the day and night.’ He leaned into Crispin and offered a sheepish smile. ‘I apologize, Master Crispin. And to you, good demoiselle.’ He bowed.

  John placed a hand at his breast and cocked his head. ‘And you are a gentleman, sir. But as for your wife …’

  Crispin shoved John none too gently forward. ‘Let us go … demoiselle.’

  Alice looked as if she would launch into another diatribe when Martin turned to her and, in hurried hushed tones, stoppered her every objection. Crispin and John were well away down the Shambles, but he could still hear her shrill voice behind him arguing with her husband.

  ‘Such an awful woman,’ John muttered, striding with head high beside Crispin.

  ‘You have no idea.’

  They headed again toward Westminster even as the bells tolled Terce, rolling and cascading down lane after lane as each church took up the call. London had been awake for hours, even if Crispin had not. The noises of animals and people and the clatter of wares sold in stalls and from peddlers’ wagons all made up the sound of a brisk London. Everyone was going about their business, unaware of the turmoil flaring through Crispin in his worry over Jack Tucker. Yes, none were aware or even cared that a life lay in the balance between now and midnight.

  Crispin and John said very little to one another as they made their familiar trek through London’s streets and out onto the highway to Westminster. They passed the Temple Bar, Charing Cross, and were closing on the Great Gateway toward St Margaret’s Street.

  He put a hand out to John and they both stopped. ‘What is it, Crispin?’

  ‘This Brother Andrew. Jack said he is hiding in the monastery of St Stephen in the palace. I think I can find him there, but …’

  ‘You can’t go into the palace.’

  ‘No. Richard … frowns … on that.’

  Crispin searched across the top of the wall toward the rooftops of the monastery. Perhaps it might be possible to climb up and over the wall, directly into St Stephen’s … but no. That would be foolish.

  ‘What I need is a disguise.’ He looked at John. John looked at him, until his eyes widened.

  ‘You want my clothes,’ he whispered.

  Crispin sputtered. ‘No, I do not!’

  ‘But it’s perfect! No one would suspect! And you keep yourself shaved.’ He touched his cheek. ‘More or less.’

  Crispin batted his hand away. ‘I will not wear women’s clothes. I was rather thinking that if I had no disguise I’d send you.’

  ‘Me? Into a monastery?’

  ‘No. But I thought that, perhaps, you might know of a … a monk … from whom you could, er, borrow a cassock.’

  Rykener settled a hand at his hip. ‘Oh you do, do you? You think I know a monk here?’

  Crispin sighed. ‘I did not mean to offend, John. Forget it.’

  ‘No, no … But will a priest do?’

  Crispin pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘No details, John. Just … get it if you can.’

  ‘I’ll be back in all haste!’

  Off he went, and Crispin paced outside of court, making use of the wide avenue to make an extensive circuit. His gaze traveled over the walls and up to the stately entrance of Westminster Hall, trying not to remember the occasions that had caused him to be there, for good and ill.

  It might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been half, when John finally appeared again, a bundle slung over his arm. ‘The things I do for you, Master Guest.’

  ‘Details, John,’ he muttered, taking the bundle. They found a quiet alley where Crispin divested himself of his leather hood and removed his cloak. With John’s help, he shrugged into the cassock and handed the hood and cloak to Rykener.

  ‘Much thanks, John.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Arrest him?’

  ‘I can’t quite arrest anyone, but … well. I need to get him out of the palace.’ He nodded curtly to the man and left the alley, heading for the Great Gateway.

  The day was bright, with a blue sky that would ordinarily have put Crispin in a better mood with its searing color and lazy clouds. Instead, he felt as black as a winter storm and just as cold, even as the sun warmed his cassock-clad shoulders.

  With a cowl over his head and strange clothes on his back, he felt fairly anonymous but was still on his guard. He walked in measured steps across the courtyard and up the steps to the Great Hall. He kept his eyes down and made it to the doorway to the corridor and followed it to St Stephen’s chapel.

  He wanted to run but forced himself into a sedate stroll down the nave.

  ‘Father! I beg of you, Father!’

  He froze when he realized he was being addressed and turned toward the woman. She was a minor noble and a young and handsome woman. His eyes glanced over her and returned to the contemplation of the floor. ‘Er … yes, my lady?’

  ‘I would be shriven. I would be relieved of my sins.’

  He raised a brow, and as much as he would have liked to hear her sins, he shook his head. ‘I beg your pardon most humbly,’ he answered softly, ‘but I am called to urgent business.’

  She looked disappointed and stepped back from him, hands clasped together. He gave her a reassuring nod and moved toward the sacristy. Once inside he looked around. An ambry, a tall desk and stool, a chandler brightly lit, and a sputtering hearth. The other door, he hoped, led into the cloister. The latch was free, but the door stuck. With a shove it opened and he recognized the arcade and carrels of the interior of the monastery. Of course, the man could be anywhere and
he didn’t know what he looked like. Could have thought this out better, he grumbled in his head.

  A monk approached down the center of the arcade and Crispin decided it might be best to simply ask. Once the monk was upon him he stepped in his way. ‘Forgive me, Brother.’

  ‘Father,’ said the startled monk with a deferential bow.

  ‘I am strange to this convent but I am looking for a Brother Andrew, also a stranger here. Might you be able to point him out to me?’

  ‘Such odd doings here,’ he muttered.

  ‘In what sense, Brother?’

  ‘Well,’ said the dark-eyed monk. His face was long, and his dark tonsure slashed across his forehead like Lenten ashes. ‘Strange people have been entering the cloister yesterday and today. They aren’t allowed in here.’

  ‘Strange people? What sort of people?’

  ‘People who aren’t clerics. I chased out a young lad only yesterday. Everyone is in such a hurry.’

  ‘Speaking of such, I am in a bit of a hurry myself, Brother.’

  ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ he muttered. ‘Brother Andrew, you say? The name is not familiar, but we get all sorts of visitors here, don’t we?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Crispin was making ready to push past the tiresome fellow when the monk put a finger thoughtfully to his chin. ‘There was a monk I did not recognize in the refectory this morning. Where did he go?’ He walked back down the arcade, peering into each carrel and stopped at one nearest the corner.

  Crispin followed and heard him address the man. ‘Forgive the intrusion, my brother,’ said the monk with a bow. ‘But might you be Brother Andrew?’

  The monk slowly set down the book in his hand and looked up. ‘I … well, aye, Brother … er …’

  A brogue. This was the man, then. Crispin stepped forward into the light.

  ‘This priest wishes to speak with you.’ Smiling at having accomplished his task, the monk bowed to them both and made his way back up the arcade, muttering about strange doings with a tick to his head.

  Brother Andrew stepped from the carrel and eyed Crispin suspiciously. ‘You were looking for me?’

  ‘Yes. I have a message for you. You are to come with me.’ To a private place, preferably.

  The man hesitated. ‘Who gave you this message?’

  Crispin smiled. ‘Now Brother, is it for you to question your superiors?’

  ‘No-o,’ he replied, still hesitant.

  ‘Then come, Brother. We are wasting time.’

  The monk emerged from the carrel and looked across the cloister garth. He pulled his cowl up over his head with a furtive flicking of his eyes. Crispin gestured for him to walk ahead and he did so haltingly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked when they reached the door to the church.

  Crispin opened it for him. ‘A moment of prayerful contemplation.’

  They entered and moved toward the rood. Crispin’s only thought now was to get him outside and avoid his escaping into the recesses of the monastery. If he could get him to Abbot Colchester, then Andrew would at least be locked into a cell for safekeeping. A monk committing such a crime as the theft of the Stone was on the knife edge between an ecclesiastical court and the king’s. And, due to the circumstances, the king might insist on his own justice. But not if the churl escaped.

  Crispin grabbed the man’s cassock perhaps a little too tightly, lifting him from his kneeling position. Andrew glared at him and stumbled after. ‘I repeat, Father Priest, where are you taking me?’

  They made it to the Great Hall and strode across it at Crispin’s quickened pace. It was there Crispin pulled his dagger and jammed the point into Andrew’s side. In a low growl he said, ‘We are going back to Westminster, where you will be facing charges of murder and theft of the Stone of Destiny.’

  Andrew jerked away, but Crispin held him fast and dug the knife point deep enough that the monk yelped.

  With a fierce grip on the cassock, Crispin dragged the monk through the archway and to the courtyard. They moved even faster now. Crispin had to risk their being noticed for the safety of being outside the walls. He could see John waiting for him on the street beyond the gate.

  He shoved Brother Andrew through once they reached the Great Gateway and when he looked as if he might run, John stepped in his way. ‘Is this Brother Andrew, Crispin?’

  The monk squinted at John, no doubt trying to reconcile deep voice to female appearance.

  ‘Over here,’ said Crispin, ushering them both to an alley. He wrestled out of his cassock and took his hood and cloak back from John. With his knife back in his hand, he leaned over Andrew cowering against the wall.

  ‘And now. There is much we need to discuss.’

  Andrew’s eyes flashed from Crispin to John and back to the knife blade. But he said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ Crispin brandished his dagger. ‘Must I use this? I admit, I’d very much like to for all the trouble you have caused me.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the monk managed to squeak.

  ‘I’m Crispin Guest, and my apprentice has been held hostage by the king until the Stone is returned. Where is it?’

  ‘The Tracker …’ he whispered.

  ‘I already know you are a false monk of Westminster and, along with Brother Crìsdean, the both of you were, perhaps, household clerics to Macduff?’

  He threw his hand over his mouth. ‘You mustn’t say that name!’ he hissed.

  ‘Very well. That matters little at the moment. What happened to Crìsdean? Are you a murderer, sir?’

  ‘Murderer?’ Eyes wild, he glanced toward the open highway just outside the alley.

  ‘Yes, for if just the two of you knew where the Stone was hidden, how much easier would it be to collect double the fee yourself?’

  The monk cringed. ‘God have mercy.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s no for the fee,’ he said in a shattered voice. ‘He … he … he was going to tell! He was going to give in, you see, and confess all to the abbot and throw himself on the mercy of the king. Ha! As if there would be mercy. He was a fool. I told him so. But he would no listen.’

  ‘And so you killed him.’

  ‘It was an accident. I only meant to stop him from saying, but I … I … hit him too hard and …’ He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and then becrossed himself.

  ‘Then you must pay for that, too, and hang.’

  ‘No! No, Master Guest, mercy! I’ll bargain with you. You let me get safely away and I’ll tell you where the Stone is.’

  ‘I have no more patience for you deceiving Scotsmen.’ Crispin grabbed the monk and shoved him hard into the wall. ‘Tell me where it is now!’

  ‘No, not until you promise. I will no say until you promise to let me go.’

  Crispin turned an exasperated face toward John, but he offered no comfort in his stern expression.

  Andrew pressed closer. A breathless desperation had overcome the fear in his eyes. ‘You need the Stone, I know where it is. I’m the last one who knows. It was never meant to be like this. This is not what I was told would happen!’ Tears glistened in his eyes. He did not bother to wipe them away.

  Crispin sneered. ‘Now you see where your own sin leads you.’ The harsh words fell like lashes on the monk, and he cringed.

  He nodded. ‘I know. I know. I was loyal to my masters, as any vassal should be. I did what I was told.’

  ‘You and Crìsdean stole the Stone of Destiny and replaced it with an explosive fake.’

  ‘Aye, aye, we did. The powder was sent to us and we fashioned the imposter Stone. No harm was to come to anyone, and Crìsdean knew the powder well. It was going according to plan.’

  ‘But no one came to claim the Stone and take it off your hands.’

  Andrew stared with mouth dropping open. ‘How did you know? We were fools to attempt this with you so near. I told them that. I warned them.’

  ‘Was it you who told your fellow conspirators to divert me?’

  He nodded. ‘
I heard the stories of you. I knew you would be in our way. But I see that it did no good.’

  ‘How did you communicate, if you did not know your compeers?’

  ‘I do not know how you know this … We were instructed to leave messages at Charing Cross. Folded parchments stuck into the crevices. That’s how I received the powder. But I knew you would figure it out. I knew we had to get the Stone away quickly.’

  ‘When did you steal it?’

  ‘Two days before the Feast of the Virgin, God help us.’

  ‘And you were told to set the explosive powder during the Mass?’

  ‘I hadn’t wanted to. Such sacrilege! But Crìsdean was urged to do so by … by one of our masters.’

  ‘McGuffin.’

  ‘You know too much about it, Master Guest.’ He looked sharply over his shoulder before facing Crispin again. ‘He wasn’t interested in the Stone, but something else. He insisted he needed the explosive to go off at that time and that I was … I was to do another task.’

  ‘What task was this?’

  He shook his head so violently that his hood flew off and settled on his shoulders. ‘Thievery. Like a common thief! But that’s not important. What is important is my life!’

  ‘The whole scheme seemed designed to cause disgrace to King Richard.’

  ‘And his wife.’ Brother Andrew all but threw his hands over his mouth when he stopped talking.

  ‘The queen? What has this to do with the queen?’

  The monk becrossed himself and shook his head. ‘I said that this was only about the Stone, but others would hatch a plot to bring down Richard and his queen. I was against it. That is not an honorable thing to do.’

  ‘What was the plot?’

  ‘I … dinna wish to say.’

  Crispin grabbed him by his arms and shook. ‘You will tell me!’

  ‘Peace, Master Guest!’ He dropped his head to his chest and sniffed, weeping again. ‘To discredit her. To distract the king.’

  ‘And this was McGuffin’s role?’

  ‘Aye. It was. A plot of extortion and deception.’

  Crispin nodded. More of it was falling into place. This was Jack’s ‘other business.’ How did the boy get himself mixed up with the queen?