Stone of destiny, p.10
Stone of Destiny, page 10
‘Yet,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘we are here in Westminster. Beyond the abbey walls there’s a warren of narrow, ill-smelling streets which house apothecary shops, not to mention the dens of warlocks and wizards where you can buy any poison under God’s sun.’
‘True,’ Sylvester retorted, ‘but we Benedictines do not have such ready monies, whilst we can hardly go into some apothecary’s garbed in our monkish robes demanding a phial of poison.’ Sylvester gestured at his colleague. ‘You have definitely checked your own store, compared them with the ledger book?’
‘Of course, all is in order. What you refer to is kept under lock and key and it hasn’t been disturbed.’
Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Listen,’ he declared, ‘four members of this community have been poisoned in the royal chapel of Westminster. One of these was an anchorite, the other three were Blackrobes, Benedictines.’ Athelstan pointed down to Malachy’s corpse. ‘God bless him, but who was he?’
‘A Scotsman. Oh yes,’ Norbert rubbed his hands together, ‘Malachy and the others called themselves Guardians of the Stone. There were four of them: Sub-Sacristan Robert, Brother Fergal, Brother Malachy, and the fourth is Brother Donal.’
‘Malachy,’ Athelstan observed, ‘was found poisoned close to the coronation chair of England. I believe the Stone of Destiny is lodged beneath that throne. Why should he come down here so early in the morning?’
‘Oh, Malachy always did. He would like to touch the stone and say a prayer for his kingdom and its Prince. He and the others viewed the stone as a very precious relic. They were devoted to it and to each other.’
‘Were they resentful?’ Cranston asked. ‘Were they hostile to English claims over Scotland? Did they see themselves as strangers in a foreign land? Did they resent the stone being held captive here?’
‘No, no.’ Sylvester shook his head. ‘They were, first and foremost, Benedictine monks, Blackrobes loyal to our order and its rule. They would hold small ceremonies to honour the stone. Like Malachy, they would come to pray beside it. To be perfectly honest, I think they liked being close to something so precious.’
‘Look,’ Prior Norbert intervened, ‘let us show you the stone.’
He and Sylvester first covered the corpses, saying that lay brothers were on their way to take the remains to the death house. Athelstan blessed both bodies. He knew it would be a waste of time to examine them himself. The murderous pattern had been clearly established. The assassin, whoever he may be, was hiding deep in the shifting shadows of his own wicked soul. All four victims had been cunningly poisoned, the murderer leaving no clue to his deadly handiwork. He glanced at Cranston who also looked baffled, standing chewing the corner of his lip. Brother Norbert declared they were ready. Athelstan and Cranston followed the two Benedictines out of the anker-hold, going along the hollow, empty, cavernous nave.
‘A place of treasure,’ Athelstan whispered to Cranston as he gazed around this magnificent building with its soaring pillars, enamelled precious metals and eye-catching murals depicted in a sweep of brilliant colours. The ever-fragrant perfume of incense sweetened the cold, misty air. The gleaming embossed wooden screens dividing the different chantry chapels reflected candlelight and the glow of lanternhorn. An array of stone statues, saints, angels, gave the impression that they were being closely watched by a presence they couldn’t see. The abbey was beginning to stir, though this was only the distant sounds of kitchens and butteries. They went through the magnificent rood screen, dominated by life-sized statues commemorating Christ’s passion, and into the exquisitely furnished sanctuary, a place of deep glory and profound prayer. A line of magnificent stained-glass windows coloured the light streaming through them, so it looked as if God’s own grace was pouring into this sacred place. Golden sanctuary lamps with blood-red glass glowed fulsomely around the pure gold pyx, hanging on its silver filigree chain to the right of the majestic high altar. This holiest of holy was covered by a cloth of gold and illuminated by a host of pure beeswax candles. Athelstan and Cranston followed the two Benedictines as they genuflected towards the altar before moving across around the back, to where England’s great coronation chair stood covered by a thick, purple pall edged with the finest lace. The two Benedictines removed this covering to reveal the resplendent gilt-wood throne, its high legs, armrests and newel posts sheathed in gold, the seat covered by a red-gold cushion displaying the snarling leopards, the personal insignia of English kings. Athelstan gazed in wonderment and then knelt to peer into the open shelf beneath the seat.
‘The “Stone of Destiny”,’ he whispered.
‘It is too heavy for us to pull out,’ Sylvester hastily explained as he came to kneel by Athelstan. ‘But by turning the throne, you can glimpse it.’
‘It doesn’t look much,’ Athelstan declared. ‘And yet this stone is sacred for Scotland and its royal house.’
Athelstan peered in at the stone and, at his request, the two monks, helped by Cranston, moved the throne so Athelstan could see more of this famous icon. Athelstan thought it was a roughly rectangular mass of coarse-grained, reddish sandstone. Using the lanternhorn that Prior Norbert had put down beside him, Athelstan carefully circled the chair, examining the stone. He noted the iron staples in the sides, probably used to push poles through so it could be lifted and moved. On the back edge of the stone he also noticed the crudely carved crosses and other symbols.
‘I know something of the stone,’ Athelstan remarked over his shoulder, ‘but little about its origins.’
‘They claimed it’s ancient and very sacred.’
Athelstan turned swiftly, clambering to his feet to meet and greet Prior Sinclair who, together with Paltoc, had slipped quietly into the sanctuary. The prior bowed to Cranston and exchanged the kiss of peace with Athelstan and the two Blackrobes. ‘They claim,’ Sinclair went to kneel before the throne, ‘that the Stone of Destiny was the stone mentioned in the Old Testament, on which the patriarch of Jacob used to rest his head at Bethel. You know the story? Jacob had a famous dream where he saw angels going up and down a ladder which spanned heaven and earth. Accordingly, the stone was judged as holy. It passed into the hands of Scota, the only daughter of the pharaoh, whom Moses drowned in the Red Sea. The stone had a fairly adventurous history, being passed from hand to hand. At last it was entrusted to the abbey of Scone in Scotland and became the coronation chair of a line of Scottish kings.’
‘Until the English seized it?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’ Sinclair walked a little closer, almost as if to hide from the light pouring through the window, keeping carefully to the shadows. ‘Oh yes,’ Sinclair repeated, ‘the stone was removed. On his march through Scotland in the year of our Lord 1296, Edward I, great grandfather of the present King, occupied Scone Abbey. He seized the stone and brought it south. It has remained here ever since. According to the Treaty of Northampton, enacted by the present King’s grandfather in 1328, the stone was to be returned to Scotland.’
‘And why wasn’t it?’
‘Oh, Brother Athelstan, the London mob refused to allow it to be taken even though the English Crown had solemnly sworn that this stone would be returned.’ Prior Sinclair spread his hands. ‘And there you have it. Brother Norbert,’ Sinclair turned to the prior, ‘I understand there have been more murders? The anchorite and poor Malachy, both poisoned like the others.’
‘True,’ Norbert grated, ‘and little progress has been made …’
‘But we will,’ Athelstan exclaimed, stung by the barbed remark. ‘Always remember,’ Athelstan smiled around, ‘God’s mill does grind exceedingly slow, but it also grinds exceedingly small. Now,’ Athelstan pointed at Paltoc, ‘why are you here?’
‘At my request, Brother Athelstan.’ Sinclair patted Paltoc on the shoulder. ‘Remember I am a visitor and a stranger to London. Such a great city with its busy, bustling streets, surging crowds and constant stream of visitors. Paltoc is my sword man.’
‘A wise choice,’ Cranston agreed. ‘A very wise choice. It’s not safe being a stranger in London. And your pursuit of the Flayer?’
‘Another reason for my being here, Sir John. I need to talk to you.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘And your parents’ grave?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I can’t find it. Tombstones, plinths and crosses have either been removed or flattened. I may need your permission to dig a little.’
‘I will agree as long as it’s done appropriately. Watkin and Pike can help.’ Athelstan pointed at Prior Sinclair. ‘Have you enjoyed your stay at St Erconwald’s?’
‘I certainly have, Brother. I only hastened here to do business of my order but I hope to return to St Erconwald’s very shortly.’
‘You have brought the royal cog, The Bannockburn, to Southwark side?’
‘A logical decision, Brother Athelstan. I am Scotland’s leading envoy.’ He smiled. ‘I like to keep the cog close. After all, as you will agree, I must have a respite from The Piebald; it’s necessary for the humours.’
‘Too true, too true,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘So now …’ He turned back to Prior Norbert. ‘Before we leave …’ Athelstan paused at a crashing and a screaming beyond the rood screen, the patter of sandalled feet, shouts and exclamations, then a figure, garbed in the black robe of a Benedictine, hurried through the rood screen to slump beside the high altar. The monk crouched, gasping and spluttering, waving his hands at other brothers who hastened into the sanctuary after him.
‘What is this?’ Prior Norbert roared. ‘What in God’s name – and I mean that – is happening here?’
The monk, who had thrown himself down by the high altar, staggered to his feet.
‘Brother Donal.’ Norbert grasped the hapless man by the arm and made him sit on the stool that Sylvester hurriedly brought across.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ Donal gasped. ‘I claim sanctuary, here in my own abbey.’
The monks who’d pursued Donal made to intervene, saying that Donal had become fey in his wits.
‘No, I am not!’ Donal screamed back. ‘Three of my brothers, Guardians of the Stone of Destiny, as we call ourselves, have been cruelly slaughtered, poisoned like rats in a barrel. You,’ Donal pointed across at Athelstan and Cranston, who now stood separate from the Benedictines, ‘you, Sir John,’ Donal trumpeted, ‘are the King’s own coroner. These deaths,’ he gasped, ‘these deaths must be investigated, the killer trapped.’
Donal then put his face in his hands and burst into tears. Athelstan watched carefully. Donal was genuinely terrified. The friar could clearly understand why. Three Benedictines, not to mention the poor anchorite, had been slain so swiftly, so silently, as if the Angel of Death had simply spread its wings over this abbey. Athelstan glanced at Sir John, who was taking refreshment from his wineskin. He then turned as Prior Sinclair plucked at his sleeve.
‘Brother Athelstan, before I forget, I bring messages from the lovely Benedicta. The food and drink taken from Halpen’s chamber were fed to the rats which prowl the tavern’s cellars.’
‘And?’
‘No mishap, Brother, nothing at all. Benedicta also said that Ursula the pig woman wanted to see you urgently on a most important matter.’
‘I am sure she does,’ Athelstan smiled his thanks, ‘but for now …’
Prior Norbert had imposed order, removing the brothers from the sanctuary. Once this was done, Athelstan demanded that the sanctuary be cleared of everyone, as he and Sir John wished to have private words with Brother Donal. Prior Norbert reluctantly agreed, then he and Sylvester left.
Donal, who had moved to the mercy enclave built into the wall of the apse behind the high altar, was now more composed. Despite the fast, he eagerly accepted the coroner’s wineskin, drank noisily, and would have continued to do so if Cranston had not seized it back. Athelstan, sitting on a stool facing Donal, patted Cranston on the arm, a gentle reminder that Donal was not being greedy, he was just frightened.
‘So sorry, so sorry. Brother Athelstan, Sir John,’ Donal mumbled, yet loud enough for Athelstan to catch the strong Scottish burr in his voice, ‘I am so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I have panicked, caused a tumult amongst my brothers and,’ he pointed at Sir John, ‘I have broken my fast and done so joyously as my belly exults with the taste of the finest Bordeaux.’
‘Never mind that,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘why are you here? Why seek sanctuary in your own abbey church?’
‘Because of the slaughter of Robert, Fergal, Malachy and, so I understand, the anchorite, though God knows, I, or we, had little to do with him.’
‘But you and your three brothers, now dead, styled yourselves Guardians of the Stone of Destiny?’
‘Yes, yes we did. All four of us are Scottish. Indeed, both myself and Fergal served in the King of Scotland’s array before we joined the order. Now the Benedictines, as I am sure you have been informed, love to set aside barriers, borders, anything which cuts one kingdom off from another. There are Englishmen in Scotland along with French, Gascon, Hainault …’ Donal’s voice gave way as he gazed anxiously around. ‘I am troubled,’ he said, ‘I am afeared.’
‘Donal, do you know of any reason why your brethren and the anchorite were poisoned?’
‘No, Brother,’ Donal wailed. ‘I do not know why, how or who. I am just frightened.’
‘So you and the others were Guardians of the Stone of Destiny?’ Cranston pulled his stool a little closer to the enclave. ‘What does that actually mean?’
‘Oh, we pray before the stone through which we touch the very heart of Scotland, its King, princes and people. We pay homage to the stone. We honour it. We mourn that it is kept prisoner in exile like ourselves, locked away in this majestic though forbidding abbey. Oh yes, and,’ Donal lowered his voice, glaring furtively around, ‘at crowning times or crown days, you know, when kings formally wear their crown and sit on their throne of glory, we would honour the stone on which Scottish kings would stand with sword and sceptre to proclaim their power. We would festoon it with flowers. Such a day is fast approaching, the third Sunday of Advent.’ Donal wiped his lips on the back of his sleeve. ‘We, the Guardians, using a slide of polished oak, would lever the stone out, light candles and pray for the honour of the King of Scotland.’ Donal paused, blinking furiously. Athelstan wondered if the man was fully in his wits, and yet what he told them seemed to be harmless enough, more play-acting than anything else.
‘So you can tell us nothing more, nothing to shed light on this murderous mystery?’
‘Nothing, Brother, nothing at all.’
Cranston and Athelstan left the abbey church. Sacristan Sylvester, urbane and smooth as ever, was waiting for them in the gallery porch. He informed them that Master Paltoc was in the guesthouse buttery. When Cranston and Athelstan entered that long chamber with its jet-black beams and brilliant white plaster, Paltoc was sitting at the head of the long buttery table supping on a blackjack of ale. He lifted his head as they entered and continued to drink, staring into the middle distance, lost in his own thoughts. Cranston and Athelstan slid onto the benches either side. Athelstan was wary, becoming increasingly suspicious at the way this stranger had slipped so quietly into his parish.
‘Well, my friend?’ Cranston demanded briskly. ‘You asked to see us, well, me in particular. Do you have news, fresh intelligence about the Flayer?’
‘No, Sir John, though I wish to God I did. However, as you said I could, I visited your chambers in the Guildhall. The clerks informed me that there have been no further murders, none whatsoever, which means,’ Paltoc added grimly, ‘that the Flayer must be preparing a fresh outrage.’
‘He may have already struck time and again,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I mean just because a fresh corpse hasn’t been discovered doesn’t mean a murder, or even more than one, hasn’t taken place. Some poor pathetic whore sprawled in a place no one visits.’
‘I would agree. The one thing I have established is that the Flayer prowls, hunts and seizes his victims in the most squalid parts of the city.’
‘True.’ Cranston slurped from his wineskin. ‘Though what you say is not new. The Flayer pounces on his victims, or rather, in the first instance, entices them into some God-forsaken cellar or derelict pit to perpetrate his abominations.’ Cranston drove the stopper back into his wineskin. ‘Easy enough, eh? Some poor wench, raddled with disease; hungry, thirsty, freezing cold. Believe me, their name is legion. The prospect of a coin would certainly draw them into the most forsaken spot.’
‘Sir John, fresh proclamations against the Flayer have been issued. The council are offering great rewards for his arrest or for providing information which would lead to him being seized and successfully convicted. These proclamations have been posted on the Standard at Cheapside, the great Cross at St Paul’s and elsewhere. Do you think they will be successful?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the Flayer will keep his abomination secret, well away from public view or anyone sharp-eyed to notice anything amiss. The Flayer probably hunts his victims under the cover of darkness and Sir John, as you know, at night parts of this city are pitch-black.’
‘It will work,’ Cranston retorted, ‘in a most wondrous way. For a start, it will concentrate the minds – not to mention the pockets – of the legion of informers which swarm through this city. I have also made it known, as my clerks must have informed you, that a most renowned man-hunter – you, Master Paltoc – has been hired to hunt this gruesome assassin.’
‘Sir John, I am flattered, but why?’
Athelstan narrowed his eyes. Paltoc seemed agitated. Any bounty hunter would be delighted at such renown, and the prospect of securing a very generous reward. Was Paltoc truly interested in hunting the Flayer, or was it a pretence for something else? If so, what? Cranston, who’d risen to loosen his warbelt, now sat down as he sighed in relief. He poked Paltoc gently on the shoulder.
