The Silence of Stones

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I see. But the Stone. There was no one to take it off your hands?’

  ‘No. I asked and I pleaded. And then … Brother Crìsdean … You must help me, Master Guest. I can trust no one.’

  ‘Do they have the Stone?’

  ‘No. Not yet. There are too many masters wanting too many tasks. But once they know where the Stone is, they will kill me, I am certain. I want your word that you will help me get safely away.’

  Crispin decided. What was one cursed monk to the life of his apprentice? ‘You have my word. Where is the Stone?’

  ‘Swear, Master Guest. I need that assurance.’

  ‘Good God, man! Do you know me or not? I said you have my word and my word is my bond, as Jesus is my witness. Now where is the damned Stone!’

  ‘It’s—’

  The monk cried out as if in pain. He arched his back unnaturally, and suddenly dropped to the muddy lane. An arrow stuck out of his neck and soon covered his cowl and the mud in a flow of crimson.

  John let out a sudden shout and another arrow struck the wall next to Crispin’s head. He ducked, and spun on his heel, crouching, searching the rooftops behind him for the archer.

  He thought he caught the merest glimpse of a figure disappearing behind a chimney, but there was no more movement from above.

  He flicked his gaze once toward John to make certain he wasn’t hit before darting toward the buildings across the way. He ran along the lane, looking upward. A slate tile loosened and cascaded downward – the only evidence of a fleeing man – but he could see no one.

  He stopped when he reached Charing Cross, scanning the rooftops but cursing when he saw nothing.

  He looked back toward John who was bent over the monk. But as he approached his worst fears were realized.

  John raised his tear-stained face and slowly shook his head.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Crispin waited for the sheriffs to arrive. He paced, striding heavily back and forth along the stone-paved avenue while John bit at his nails.

  ‘What will you tell them?’ he asked Crispin.

  Crispin continued to furiously pace. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you’d better think of something for they are coming.’

  Stopping in his tracks, Crispin looked up. Four horsemen approached, not of the Apocalypse – though they might as well be, he mused. The soon-to-be ex-sheriffs flanked the new sheriffs. And not one of them looked pleased to see him.

  Sheriff William Venour stopped his horse right before Crispin and glared down at him. ‘Another dead monk, Master Guest? You have an uncanny knack for being nigh or the cause of a murder.’

  Sheriff Hugh Fastolf pulled his mount up beside Venour. ‘I weary so of Master Guest. I do not envy you, Thomas and Adam.’

  The new sheriffs – twin blond heads and sneering faces – appeared to agree. ‘What has happened here, Master Guest?’ ventured Adam Carlylle.

  ‘He was murdered as I was questioning him.’

  ‘And why, pray, were you questioning him?’

  ‘Because he and his fellow brother – also murdered – knew the whereabouts of the Stone of Destiny.’

  Thomas Austin leaned over his saddle pommel. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before!’ he hissed, eyes darting toward the gathered crowd. ‘Then the other death at Westminster—’

  ‘I thought it might be obvious, my lord.’

  ‘There is nothing obvious in your doings, Guest, for you deal in all sorts of dubious matters … for a fee,’ he added disdainfully.

  Crispin stood at the horse’s head, tempted to caress the muzzle. Better that than a bribe. ‘What else could so occupy my thoughts? There is only today before the Commons meet tomorrow.’

  ‘Well then?’ said Carlylle eagerly. ‘Where is the Stone? Have you located it?’

  Crispin gestured sourly to the corpse at his feet. ‘He was the last who knew for certain where it was. And he didn’t have an opportunity to tell me before he was killed.’

  The all looked down solemnly.

  ‘But I am certain,’ said Crispin, ‘that it is in Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘The place was thoroughly searched,’ said Venour.

  ‘And yet, these two monks secured it where no one would find it.’

  Fastolf dismounted and ambled toward the corpse, touching the tip of the arrow’s fletching. ‘What happened, Master Guest?’

  Crispin joined his hands behind his back. ‘He was shot. With an arrow.’

  Fastolf gave him a withering gaze. ‘I can see that for myself. I meant the circumstances, as you very well know.’ He turned toward Carlylle and Austin with a world-weary tilt to his head. ‘Do you see what we have to put up with? Disrespect.’

  ‘Answer the question forthwith, Guest,’ said Austin.

  ‘We were talking, just here, and suddenly he was shot with an arrow. I chased who I thought was the archer. He ran along the rooftop there, but I never got a look at him.’

  ‘Are we supposed to believe that?’ said Carlylle.

  John Rykener stomped forward, casting his skirts aside with his strides. ‘But that is what happened! I saw it.’

  ‘And who are you, demoiselle?’ asked Venour, leaning on the saddle pommel toward John.

  John wrapped his cloak about him and looked up at the sheriff through his veil. ‘I am Eleanor, an embroideress. I saw it happen.’

  ‘Did you see the culprit who did it?’

  ‘No. No, God help me. I was too distressed when the monk was felled.’

  ‘Of course. This is too unseemly for the likes of a woman. You may go.’

  ‘Oh … but I am with Master Guest.’

  The sheriff slid his gaze toward Crispin. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘She … is a friend,’ said Crispin tightly, cursing John’s choice of clothing for not the first time. He withstood the leer for as long as he could before announcing, ‘If you are done with me I have more investigating to do.’

  ‘Not so fast, Guest,’ said Austin. ‘Just where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘I am going to Westminster Abbey to search for the Stone of Destiny. With your permission,’ he added through gritted teeth.

  Carlylle waved him off. ‘We don’t need him.’ He looked around absently. ‘I hope someone has called for the coroner.’

  Crispin almost turned away from them before he studied Carlylle.

  The neophyte sheriff narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you stare at me?’

  ‘Your name is Carlylle.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘That is a Scottish surname, if I am not mistaken.’

  Carlylle postured, but a red sunburst flushed his otherwise pale cheeks. ‘What of it? What are you trying to make of that, Guest?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord. Only … might you know of Scottish things, words? For example, the expression; ach-ishkeh?’

  Carlylle hesitated. ‘I don’t make a habit of … This is absurd. I am English! My family has lived in England for generations.’

  ‘I do not disparage it, my lord. It is merely a clue to the whereabouts of the Stone. If you know it, it would make my investigation easier.’

  Carlylle chewed on his lip and snatched a look at his fellow sheriffs. ‘Hmpf. Well. Do you by any chance mean … each-uisge?’

  Crispin shrugged. ‘It’s as close as I could get to that pronunciation.’

  Carlylle glanced again at his curious companions before looking away. ‘Such a strange request. It’s … a spirit, a demon. A man who turns into a horse, but stays close to the water. A water devil. So my grandparents said. A tale. They used to warn us as children to stay away from the water’s edge or the each-uisge would drag us down. Foolish pagan nonsense.’

  Crispin frowned. ‘I see. Thank you.’ He bowed and turned quickly.

  ‘Guest!’ called Carlylle.

  Crispin stopped and barely turned.

  ‘I don’t know what you are about, and I don’t know your character except by what these good men say.’ He gestured toward the
sheriffs. ‘But I have heard other … rumors … about you.’ He seemed embarrassed when he said, ‘I pray that you do find it.’

  He bowed slightly toward Carlylle. ‘Thank you, Lord Sheriff. I shall do my utmost.’ He said no more and hurried toward Westminster’s north door, with John Rykener fast on his heels.

  ‘What was that all about, Crispin?’

  ‘I’m not sure. What did Jack say?’ He withdrew the folded parchment from his scrip as they trotted up the stone steps to the Norman arched entrance. ‘For it is secreted well and sound, and even an ach-ishkeh himself cannot find it.’

  ‘A water devil,’ said John, finger tapping his assiduously shaved chin. ‘Why would a monk speak of such curious things?’

  ‘The Scottish are more prone to their pagan beliefs, even a monk.’ Crispin smiled and slowed when he passed under the shadowed arch and stood in the cold entry. ‘But I suspect that if he’d had more classical leanings he might have said Poseidon or Neptune.’ John blinked at him. ‘Don’t you see, John? They’ve hidden it in water. And even this ach-ishkeh can’t find it.’ He poked his finger into John’s chest and grinned. ‘But otherwise could because it’s in water.’

  ‘Water!’ He slid to a stop and peered into the font but shook his head when it proved to be just a font. ‘But which water? I mean …?’

  ‘Only so many places within a monastery. And think. Two men hiding it but having to retrieve it again. You wouldn’t want to put it down a well. The horrid thing must weigh twenty-one, twenty-two stone. You’d not wish to haul it up.’

  ‘A stew pond?’

  Crispin shook his head, walking quickly through the church toward the cloister. ‘Same problem. What if it got stuck in the mud? You’d never get it out.’

  John winced. ‘Surely not a privy or cesspit?’

  ‘A little too disrespectful.’ They reached the south transept and the door to the cloister. ‘But close.’ He reached out to grab the bell rope and pulled. The bells jangled while they waited for the porter.

  John could not seem to stand still and strained his neck looking up in to the vaulted ceilings, the gated quire behind, the rood screen-covered sanctuary. ‘You seem to know your way about here, Crispin.’

  ‘I was friends with Abbot de Litlyngton.’ He becrossed himself, thinking of the man.

  ‘And … he is now gone from this life?’

  ‘Alas. I miss him. He was a clever man and well-educated.’

  ‘I am sure he is intervening for you in Heaven, Crispin,’ John said softly.

  Crispin smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I certainly hope so.’

  A cowled monk shuffled from the shadows and greeted them at the door. ‘Benedicte. How can I assist you?’

  ‘I need to get into the cloister.’

  The monk stared at him. ‘Only the monks are allowed into the cloister.’

  ‘I am Crispin Guest. I am … acquainted with your abbot. You may consult him if you wish for my credentials.’

  The monk he did not recognize bowed. ‘I shall. Please wait here.’

  Crispin muttered an oath and blew out an impatient breath. ‘Ridiculous.’

  John clasped the barred gate. ‘Should they not all know you by now?’

  ‘It is my own vanity that supposes it,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Never fear, Crispin. You are close to it now. You will save Jack.’ John patted his shoulder. ‘You have done well.’

  ‘I haven’t got it yet.’ But he did feel suddenly better. Yes, he was close. Jack would be saved. His relief was immense, but he knew he mustn’t put the cart before the horse. He had to have the Stone safely in his hands before he could begin to celebrate.

  In his contemplation, he hadn’t noticed the boy suddenly behind him, tugging on his cloak.

  He turned and took in the bedraggled boy, looking much like Jack Tucker had when Crispin had first met him on the streets some four years ago. ‘Are you Crispin Guest?’ The boy spared a brush of his eyes over Rykener.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a message for you, sir.’ He held out the folded parchment.

  ‘From whom?’

  The boy shook his head, trembling his overgrown locks. ‘I don’t know, sir. He gave me a farthing and told me to deliver it inside the abbey to you.’

  Crispin’s senses went on alert. Someone was watching him. But of course they were. He took the missive and broke open the blank wax seal.

  We have your friend Eleanor. Yes, the true one this time. Bring the Stone and come to Queenhithe dock at Compline if you do not wish to see her die.

  Crispin hadn’t noticed he had been holding his breath. He let it out with a gasped, ‘God’s blood!’

  ‘Crispin! What is it?’

  Crispin let the parchment fall and grabbed the boy, who cried out at the rough handling. ‘Show me the man who gave this to you!’

  Mute, the boy nodded, eyes wide. Crispin held firm to his arm and dragged him to the archway. As they went down the steps the boy searched wildly about.

  Crispin knew the answer ever before the boy spoke brokenly.

  ‘I cannot see him, sir. He isn’t here.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Expecting the description of McGuffin, Crispin knotted his brow at the pronouncement of another.

  ‘And he spoke with a northern dialect?’

  The boy, more at ease now that Crispin had calmed himself, replied, ‘I know not of that, sir. But he spoke not as a Londoner.’

  ‘Good enough.’ He reached into his scrip for his money pouch and withdrew a farthing. ‘For your trouble. I … uh … apologize for the …’

  The boy clutched the coin in a dirty fist and bowed. ‘No trouble, sir.’ He fled down the street and never looked back.

  Crispin marched back up the steps and met John Rykener there. He was reading the missive, moving his lips as he did. ‘By St Katherine! This is ill done, Crispin. What do we do now? Should we not call in the help of the sheriffs?’

  Should they? Crispin pondered it. They had never been much help before. ‘I don’t know,’ he growled. He pushed past John, stomped through the church, and headed again toward the cloister door … where Abbot William de Colchester awaited, hands clasped before him.

  ‘Master Guest,’ he said, inclining his head. It was the first gesture of respect he had bestowed upon Crispin, even as subtle as it was. ‘I was told you were here. Do you have tidings for me?’

  ‘Yes. Some bad, some good. Your Brother Andrew was found. But he has since been killed. Murdered.’

  ‘Jesus help us,’ he whispered, becrossing himself.

  ‘It appears that he killed Brother Crìsdean.’

  ‘Then justice has been done,’ said the abbot gravely.

  ‘Indeed. But he managed to impart the news that the Stone is present here, in Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘But we have searched, Master Guest. Most assiduously.’

  ‘But not cleverly. Can you tell me the source of the water for your lavatorium?’

  The abbot appeared startled but composed himself quickly. ‘Come this way.’ Crispin only then noticed his assistant, Brother Thomas, who had his hand on the gate and quickly turned to unlock the cloister door. They entered through and the abbot hesitated when John tried to follow. ‘Women are not allowed in the cloister, demoiselle,’ he said with a bow.

  John looked to Crispin. It seemed so small a thing now. ‘He is not a woman, Father Abbot,’ said Crispin solemnly.

  ‘Oh!’ The abbot drew back, looked him up and down. He looked as if he wished to say something, but after a moment’s pause seemed to reconsider. ‘There must be a reason you are here with Master Guest and so garbed.’

  ‘He is a good and loyal friend, my lord. And he has saved my life a number of times. In this instance, he has stepped into the shoes of Jack Tucker … albeit of a more … feminine sort.’ He would not discuss further with the abbot what John was about, only that he needed him beside him. And the abbot, being the worldly man he was, merely
nodded.

  ‘Very well, Master Guest. This is not for me to sort … today.’ He moved forward toward the study carrels and the corridor to the chapter house, dipping his hands into his sleeves without giving Rykener a backward glance. Brother Thomas, distaste plainly on his face, skirted wide around John to follow his abbot.

  With a grateful but brief smile, John urged Crispin forward.

  They all traveled along the arcade, their footsteps echoing off the windswept stone. The cloister garth in the center still sported a green lawn, herbs and hedges, and trees that had not yet succumbed to fall as it fast approached with a chill breeze and an icy morning. Their shade reminded of summer days, and Crispin well knew that the courtyard was often the place for the monks to take their leisure in games with a stuffed leather ball.

  Today, all was quiet. And soon the monks would need to prepare for yet another funeral for one of their brethren, as loath as they might be to pray for such a man.

  They turned the corner and reached the south covered walk. The long lavatorium trough ran almost the entire length of the passage, with its protrusion of brass spigots carefully spaced along the way. The refectory door sat at the end.

  ‘This,’ said Crispin, gesturing toward the trough, ‘pipes its water from where, my Lord Abbot?’

  The abbot turned to Brother Thomas. The monk addressed Crispin, studiously ignoring John Rykener. ‘It is fed through lead pipes from a cistern.’

  ‘And where is this cistern, Brother Thomas? Can you show me?’

  The monk led the way through another passage that led to a gate behind the arcade. A large barrel the size of a tun, stood up on a raised platform. A leaden pipe snaked down from the tun and through the stone wall. A stairway led up to the platform where some tools lay scattered. A ladder leaned against it.

  ‘We recently had some workmen here, Master Guest,’ offered Brother Thomas, gesturing toward the tools. ‘The pipes were in need of repair.’

  Crispin examined the steps and the platform. Both had lines scraped through them with gouges and chips, all recently done. He climbed the stairs and stood on the platform, searching. ‘Something heavy was dragged up here,’ he said, warming with the sensation of confidence. ‘Brother Thomas, have you a long hook of some kind? Something a workman might use?’