The Cast Of A Stone by Avril Borthiry

Author:Avril Borthiry [Borthiry, Avril]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-04-16T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Stephen fought with his conscience unarmed, struggling to reconcile right and wrong. It was impossible, he realized, since both decisions were right and wrong. He lied to Henry, straight faced, aware of Keir's eyes upon him. The story of the stone was merely a legend, he explained, with no basis in fact. The priest in the abbey had spoken only in riddles. There was no indication that such a stone existed.

Argante was a rogue, a mercenary leading a group of undisciplined men on a futile quest. They would find nothing, for there was nothing to be found.

Henry listened, thankfully showing little interest. His mind was otherwise occupied, strangely enough, by one of Stephen's distant cousins who was busy rallying the English barons to a rebellious cause. The 6th Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, was giving the English king plenty to think about.

So, after telling Henry of his findings, Stephen was paid for his services and quickly dismissed.

* * *

Creake Abbey, Norfolk, England.

“Francis, do you know me?”

Francis frowned. An unfinished prayer died on his lips and his fingers paused on the polished wooden beads of his paternoster. He squinted through eyes misted with age, trying to make sense of the dark shape before him. The voice was familiar, and that of a man.

“Were you here yesterday?” Francis asked, searching his failing mind. “I think I do remember you from yesterday.”

Another voice spoke, also that of a man. “Is he addled as well as blind?”

Francis tensed with annoyance. Who is this stranger with the insolent tongue? “I may not see well,” he said. “But I'm not deaf.”

Soft laughter emerged from the shadows. “Please forgive my young companion, old friend. He tends to speak before he thinks. He means no offence. 'Tis I, Lord Keir. Do you remember me?”

“Lord Keir?” Francis's heart clenched. Of course he remembered. “Why are you here? Is it Alexander? Has he been hurt?”

“Nay. Rest easy. Alexander is in good health.”

“Good.” Francis nodded, wondering why tears burned behind his eyes. “Aye, very good. 'Tis many weeks since I've spoken to him, but I expect he's occupied. Does the babe yet thrive? They said she wouldn't live the summer.”

He waited, frustrated by the silence. Had he imagined the voices? Sometimes he heard whispers in the night, ghosts from the past who refused to let him be. But these visitors weren't ghosts. So why did they not answer him?

A soft sigh echoed off the cell walls. “I fear we're wasting our time. I could enter his mind. I could see –”

“Nay, Stephen, you'll do no such thing.”

“Does the wee lass live?” Francis interrupted, annoyed by their lack of response. “Does she?”

“Aye, she does.” Cool breath brushed against Francis's face. “Tell me, Francis. Do you trust me?”

Francis blinked, puzzled at Keir's question. “Of course, my lord. I've always trusted you.” He grinned and scratched his chin. “'Tis that Irish whelp who merits caution. Is he here too?”

“Nay.” Keir chuckled. “Listen to me, old friend. In a moment, you'll feel my hand resting on your head.

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