Crispin watched helplessly as Jack was marched away by the guards. The boy looked back once, eyes wide with terror. Crispin aimed a glare at Richard, whose smug expression made him tighten his fist so he would not be tempted to draw sword or dagger. He could not in the end, for he had meant his oath.
Besides, a guard had remained behind.
‘Sire, please …’ Crispin pleaded.
Richard paid him no further heed and swept out of the chamber, followed close by his guard. Only William de Colchester stayed and watched Crispin dispassionately.
‘The king,’ he said after a long pause, long after the echoed steps of the king and his guard had died away, ‘does not appear to like you much.’
Crispin slowly counted to ten in his head. He decided he would very much like to strike the abbot, but knew he needed the man’s help to investigate.
‘Yes,’ he bit out, turning back toward the exit. ‘I need to see the Coronation Chair.’ Without waiting for the abbot’s permission, he stalked toward the door and passed through it. The king and his retinue – and Jack Tucker – were already gone, leaving only the new sheriffs and some monks in the church. He tried not to think of Jack, of where they would take him, and what might befall him if he failed … No. He could not fail. Must not.
Taking a breath, he approached the chair, but the sheriffs stepped in his way. One put his hand on Crispin’s chest to bar him from moving forward.
‘That’s quite close enough,’ said one. ‘Who are you?’
They looked alike. They could have been brothers, for all Crispin knew. Both with light hair, both of medium height, medium girth. Same pale faces and somber eyes. He bowed to them both. ‘I am Crispin Guest, my lords. Do I have the honor to meet Sheriff Carlylle or Sheriff Austin?’
The man straightened his green houppelande and postured. ‘I am soon to be Sheriff Carlylle. Crispin Guest, you say? Ah! Fastolf and Venour warned us about you.’
The other, in a blue houppelande, came up beside his companion. ‘So this is Guest.’ He looked Crispin up and down. ‘I suppose you mean to trouble us immediately, ever before we take office.’
‘It is urgent, my lords. The king himself commissioned me to investigate this matter.’ He gestured toward the chair.
Carlylle stepped aside. ‘Far be it from me to interfere with the infamous Tracker. Especially when he is so commissioned.’
Crispin didn’t have time to decide whether he was sincere or not. He pushed ahead and knelt immediately before the chair. A shadow passed over the floor and he turned. William de Colchester stood, hands within his cassock sleeves.
Crispin reached for the white fragments surrounding the area, the shattered remains of … something.
‘My Lord Abbot,’ he said, picking up one of the shards and eyeing it closely. ‘When did you last see the Stone in its place?’
‘Only moments before I went out to accompany the procession.’
‘An hour or so ago, then, would you say?’
‘Yes. Or so.’
The shard was chalky and had shattered completely. He looked about and the largest piece was only the size of a child’s hand. He retrieved one and turned it. One side was painted a mottled gray color, while inside was white. He sniffed it. Lime plaster.
‘I doubt that you looked very carefully.’ He placated with a gesture before the abbot could protest. ‘Oh, I mean no disrespect. But doubtless you have passed the chair many a time and gave it only a cursory glance. The Stone would lie in the shadow under the seat here.’ He pointed to the rectangular space designed to hold the Stone. ‘You would have assumed that the object was in fact the Stone of Destiny, as you expected to see. But this—’ He showed the abbot the shard. ‘This would have appeared just enough like the true Stone to pass the musters. It looks to have been a false stone made of plaster. Look here.’ He handed the piece to Colchester and stood.
The abbot examined it carefully. ‘Amazing. Diabolical.’
‘Yes. It means the Stone was replaced with a false one. But it is difficult to say how long ago that was. I fear the Stone might be long gone.’ And if that were so, then Jack …
‘Then why this performance, for want of a better word?’ asked the abbot. ‘Why explode it while all were present? If the perpetrators wished harm to the king, then why not make an attempt upon his person?’
‘Why indeed? Perhaps because they wanted more to discredit than to physically hurt. Detonate their stone at a time when most of court was here.’
‘And such a demonstration of fire and destruction! How was it achieved?’
‘Explosive powder. The same used for cannons and for gonnes. But it meant that the instigator was present to fire it off.’
‘He could have easily been disguised as a monk,’ said the abbot thoughtfully.
‘Precisely what I was thinking.’
Abbot William nodded toward Crispin. ‘I am beginning to see what our late brother Nicholas de Litlyngton so liked about you, Master Guest.’
‘We were friends.’
‘It is good to have clever friends.’
‘Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods.’ He turned a sheepish expression to the stone-faced abbot. ‘Forgive me, my Lord Abbot. It is my custom to quote my favorite philosopher, Aristotle. I often do so without thinking, I’m afraid.’
‘An interesting habit,’ he said and tossed the plaster shard away. ‘How will you proceed?’
He sagged and touched one finial of the chair’s back, before running his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. Has the abbey received any threats? Any letters?’
‘None that I have been aware of.’
‘Who would have been responsible for cleaning the chair? Surely someone applying polish to the wood would have noticed a difference in the Stone on close inspection? It might give us a better idea as to when the switch was made.’
Colchester nodded. ‘I will ask the chamberlain.’ He turned and motioned toward a dark corner and only when a monk emerged from the shadows did Crispin realize he had been there all along, waiting on his abbot … or protecting him from Crispin, no doubt. ‘Fetch him immediately.’
The abbot went back to his stoic stance of waiting, hands crossed over each other. Crispin could not stand immobile. He strode to the chair instead and walked around it as far as he could. The chair was situated opposite of Edward the Confessor’s tomb. Candles on stands were positioned at each corner of the sepulcher, flickering their bright light.
Leaning over to examine the chair’s chipping paint, the scratches from the explosion, Crispin shook his head in wonder. If more powder had been used, it could very well have blown up the chair. The thief either knew his business well or was extraordinarily lucky.
It wasn’t long that a monk came striding toward them. His hair was nearly as red as Jack’s, and he bowed to his abbot and looked down his nose at Crispin. ‘My Lord Abbot,’ he said with a distinct northern accent. Crispin narrowed his eyes.
The monk glanced past him to the chair, and he seemed to startle back.
‘Brother Crìsdean, could you tell me when was the last time you cleaned the Coronation Chair.’
‘Och, look at it!’ He staggered forward, nearly shoving Crispin aside, and knelt before the chair. ‘What happened?’
‘Were you not at the Mass?’ asked Crispin.
He picked up a few shards and scrutinized them. ‘I was not. Someone had to make certain the refectory was ready for our royal visitors. My Lord Abbot insisted.’
‘When did you last clean the chair, Brother?’ Crispin said again.
He turned then, wild puzzlement on his features. ‘What difference could it possibly make?’
‘More than you think. The Stone—’
‘The Stone! Jesus, the Stone!’
Crispin sighed. Was it an act? Had the man only just now noticed the absence of the Stone? And, if so, would he have noticed a difference when he last cleaned the chair?
‘Just so,’ he said mildly. ‘If you could tell me …’
Abruptly, the monk turned his back. ‘What happened, my Lord Abbot?’
Abbot William was the very image of patience. He shrugged a careless gesture toward Crispin, and the monk reluctantly faced him again.
‘As I was saying,’ Crispin went on. ‘When was the last time you cleaned this chair? Did you notice anything amiss?’
‘Yesterday,’ he said in bewilderment.
‘And the Stone. Do you recollect whether you saw anything strange about it?’
‘No. On my life. It was the same as it always was. I wiped its surface as well. It was the Stone. The same. The iron rings were there.’
‘Iron rings?’
‘Yes.’ He seemed to come out of his stupor and raised his face to Crispin’s. ‘The iron staples and rings, used for carrying the Stone. It has always had them.’
‘I see. I have never had occasion to be that close to the Coronation Chair, nor to scrutinize the Stone before.’
‘Naturally.’ His accent seemed to thicken the more irritated he became.
‘And where do you hail from, Brother Crìsdean?’
The monk raised his chin. ‘And why would you care?’
‘Because the Stone was stolen and a false one in its place was blown up to most dramatic effect. And the perpetrators were most certainly Scottish rebels.’
‘Oh, I see. And the first Scot you come across is the guilty one, eh? Such a fine reputation you have, Master Guest. Surely I should be dragged away forthwith in chains!’
‘Now, Brother,’ warned Abbot William. ‘No one is accusing you. Nor are we set to drag you away in chains. Master Guest was merely exercising his considerable skills of observation.’ A flicker of a smile curved his lips but was instantly gone again.
‘You may very well wish to mock me,’ Crispin snarled. ‘But I have been tasked with finding the Stone, and for this my apprentice’s life hangs in the balance. It is hardly a laughing matter, my Lord Abbot.’
The abbot closed his eyes and bowed. ‘Indeed. Forgive me, Master Guest. Is there more you wish to ask of my monk?’
So much more, he thought. ‘No more for now,’ he said instead.
The monk acknowledged them both with a bow and pivoted before hurrying away. He looked back once over his shoulder to glare at Crispin, but the shadows soon swallowed him.
The abbot looked back at his retreating monk curiously. ‘You don’t suspect him, do you?’
‘I suspect everyone,’ Crispin growled. He raked his fingers through his hair again. Something like this was difficult enough without the added complication of Jack’s incarceration. ‘How long has he been a monk here, Father Abbot?’
Colchester’s normally blank features twisted in a frown. He slipped his hands inside his sleeves. ‘Less than a year. He came from another monastery. In … in the north.’
‘If I were you, I’d keep an eye on him.’ Crispin turned to leave.
‘Where do you go now, Master Guest?’
‘I must follow a trail that is a day old. I am grateful it is not older.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Please. Pray for a swift outcome. For Jack Tucker’s sake.’
‘That I shall, Master Guest. And for you as well.’
Crispin ducked his head in thanks before he walked in stiff strides down the ambulatory and past chattering groups of men still lingering in the nave.
When he stepped outside into the abbey’s courtyard he breathed deep. What the hell was he to do now? Organize your thoughts, Crispin. He breathed again. Perhaps it would be best to seek out the place where the gunpowder might have been acquired. There weren’t likely many places. Perhaps the Palace. Perhaps the Tower. He had to think. Whom could he ask? Lancaster? But he was still in Spain. Henry? He might know. He could send Jack to get a message …
How much he relied on the boy. How accustomed he had become to having him beside him. Stoking his fires, fetching the water, caring for him. And now …
Goddamn Richard! What was the man thinking? He was frightened, that was certain. And like a frightened beast he lashed out where he least should. If only …
A loud caw startled him. He looked down. A large raven had lighted on the path before him. ‘Shoo! Begone!’ He waved his hand at the bird, but it only hopped back a few paces before opening its dark beak again and crying its raucous call.
‘I haven’t time for this.’ Crispin made a wide berth around the bird, but the raven hopped to stand before him again. It cawed once more, opened its wings, and flapped till it lighted on a fence post.
Crispin attempted to skirt it again but was bombarded with a cascade of caws. The bird hopped farther along the fence as if it was leading him.
Crispin looked around. A trained bird? Someone’s idea of a jest?
He drew his sword halfway from its scabbard before he thought better of it. Was he to be seen on the street swiping at a bird? They’d think him mad. He took a step forward, and the bird cut him off. He stepped to the side and was rewarded with hoarse cawing. He stepped the other way, and the bird took flight ahead of him. What madness is this?
Just to test it again, he made tracks in the opposite direction, and the bird was back, soaring over his head and alighting on the roof’s eave before him. It scolded, glaring with tiny beady eyes.
‘I’m a fool for certain,’ he muttered and pivoted, returning to the path the bird seemed to want him to take.
Just as he made to skirt the bird again, it darted forward, landed on his scrip, and plucked at it, nearly getting to his money pouch inside. ‘What the hell?’ Without its prize, the bird flapped and called, flying off. But something clicked in Crispin’s memory. He still felt the fool, but he trotted after the bird now, keeping it within his sight as it wheeled across the rooftops.
The bird flew ahead but waited for him on posts, ale stakes, and roof tops when he fell behind. ‘I’m following, damn you,’ he muttered, wondering why he was wasting his precious time on this when urgent matters awaited. But each time he tried to abandon the bird, it pursued him, sometimes so close he feared it would bite him. He sent up a silent prayer for patience and followed down more winding lanes. He felt more and more foolish until the bird seemed to be homing in on somewhere in particular.
At the end of a lane, the way was blocked by a ramshackle house with slate shingles, many of which were missing. The bird flew straight through the open doorway, and Crispin rested his hand on his sword pommel. ‘Well! Let us excise this mystery forthwith.’ He marched forward and didn’t knock as he bent to pass under the low lintel.
The room was dark and vacant, except for a stool and a table with three legs. The hearth was cold, and shadows slanted over the walls. A ladder stretching up to a loft stood to his right. He heard a rustle, and figured it was the bird settling on a perch in the loft. ‘Well?’ said Crispin. ‘Is anyone here?’
‘Only me,’ said a gravelly voice behind him.