Episode 7: For the Stone, Chapter 2
On a lonely island, enshrouded by mists and surrounded by the dark waters of the river Dee, Threave Castle stood. A lonely sentinel, silent and stalwart, holding fast against the many ravages of time. Jenkins had been here once before, many, many years ago, as an ageing knight errant. It had been newly built then. A marvel in the area. A tower taller than any in Scotland had ever seen before. The life of the knight errant had passed almost into the mists of time even then, before a troubled soldier had met him, listened to his tales and retold them in a manner that tended to make Jenkins understand Holmes' view of Watson's fantastical tales. That had brought the errant life back into the romantic, wistful eye of those with more money than they knew what to do with, and less skill than the most menial of their servants, whom, Jenkins noted, most treated worse than they would a beggar on the street.
The age of chivalry had passed away long before its death knell was sounded, he thought. All that remained now was the vague idea that one should open doors for women. Nothing about the general respect for truth and justice and integrity and honour that had filled Arthur's court. Yes, Camelot was gone, and the people had earned the right to govern themselves, it was true, but sometimes there were parts of that time that he missed.
"Oh look! An osprey nest!" Flynn bobbed up and pointed at the top of a nearby tree.
Like a squire with an attention span longer than the average butterfly, Jenkins thought.
"Are ospreys particularly rare in this part of the world these days?" Jenkins sighed, knowing he was about to get an ornithological lecture the length of which would be the only thing he would remember.
"Actually, due to deliberate poisoning by farmers, and accidental poisoning by the pesticide DDT, or dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, they became extinct here in Britain in nineteen sixteen. They were re-colonised in nineteen fifty four when a pair of migrating Scandinavian birds decided to nest at Loch Garten further North, but didn't really take off again, no pun intended, until 'Operation Osprey' in nineteen seventy six stopped egg collectors collecting osprey eggs..."
"Mr Jenkins and Mr Carsen?"
Jenkins uttered a silent thank you to the heavens and turned to face the man approaching them in tweeds and a jacket emblazoned with the Historic Scotland logo. "We are they," he replied.
"I have the key for the boat here," said the man, whose name badge identified him as John Douglas. "We'll have you across in a jiffy. Will you be wanting to stay long?"
"I really couldn't say," replied Jenkins before Flynn could finish the word forming on his lips. "I believe it was a Douglas who built the castle. An ancestor of yours, perhaps?"
"Aye, it was built by a Douglas, but not one o' my kin," answered the man, shaking his head. "The main town is Castle Douglas. Historically surnames came from your father, your job or your hometown. Mine, we think, is from the latter. Granted, old Archibald the Grim, who built that grim place, had the same name, but ultimately through the same origins, not the same bloodline."
"It is quite forbidding, is it not?" Jenkins smiled, brimming with charm. "I appreciate your taking time out of your schedule to show us it."
"We are generally closed during the winter months, from November through until March," said John, unlocking the padlock on the rowing boat used to ferry visitors across. It had been brought out of its winter housing for the purpose. "But I believe I can make an exception for researchers such as yourself. It is at the site manager's discretion after all."
"Well, I thank you for it," beamed Jenkins.
The trip across the river Dee was uneventful, and they landed on the island easily. Jenkins and Flynn took their leave of the site manager with more thanks and the assurance they would call when they were ready to return.
"I apologise, Jenkins," said Flynn, once they were out of earshot. "I almost forgot we had agreed that you be the best-selling author."
"I cannot think why," replied Jenkins smoothly. "Now instead of being distracted by birds, as my younger sidekick usually is, tell me what you know already of Threave."
"Jones is an ornithologist?" Flynn asked, brows knitting together.
"No," said Jenkins with a sharp nod of his head. "Now how much do you know?"
"Built by Archibald the Grim, of the Black Douglas family, with his wife's money. Fortified in fourteen fifty by the eighth earl and only lost in fourteen forty five due to bribery and corruption in the ranks.
"Something like that," Jenkins nodded. "When Archibald built this place it was the tallest tower in Scotland, and it was surrounded by an array of other buildings. Stables, forge, kitchens, hall, chapel. The usual paraphernalia. He spent most of his time at Bothwell, to begin with, but gradually began to find more and more of his time taken up by his Lordly duties in Galloway. Eventually it was his main stronghold. He died here, but you know that. Such a shame. Always looked down on because of the illegitimacy of his birth, even by the people he spent his life serving. He wasn't quite a 'real noble' because his mother hadn't been. So they said, anyway."
"You knew him?" Flynn looked over at the Caretaker as they made their way across the island to the castle.
"I met him once, here, not long after he built the place. He seemed pleasant enough," shrugged Jenkins. "Always worrying though, that he wasn't quite good enough. He had no idea how much better than most he actually was. Shame that."
"No mention of the stone, though, I take it?" Flynn asked.
"If there had been do you think I would have kept silent until now?" Jenkins growled. "No, he never mentioned the stone, but then why would he: he would have been sworn to secrecy, and I was just a stranger passing through on the hunt for something else."
"Something interesting?" Flynn's ears pricked up.
"Aren't they always?" Jenkins smirked.
"But you're not going to tell me," sighed the Librarian.
"You've been getting enough old war stories from Leo, you do not need mine," murmured the old man.
"There's always something left to learn," tried Flynn.
"And it will still be there tomorrow," smiled Jenkins.
XXXX
"Why do I always get the coldest ones?" Jones muttered, wrapping his jacket around him against the chill of the sea breeze.
"Hey, Flynn and I took that pyramid in Antarctica," retorted Baird. "And then there was that yeti that got stuck in this dimension. Volcano waking up due to unknown trigger in Iceland? Remember that?"
"Yeah, yeah: point taken," he sulked. "But come on: we had a choice! You could have picked the one by the English border."
"I picked the one with central heating," Baird replied, somewhat smugly, as they approached the main entrance. "Still wishing I'd picked the ruin in the middle of a river?"
"Mother knows best," Jones shrugged, following her inside.
"Not your mother!" Baird's voice echoed in the ancient stone porch.
"But that takes so much of the fun out of my Iceland jokes!" Jones complained.
Baird stopped so suddenly the thief almost disgraced his erstwhile profession by walking into her. She turned and gave him an utterly confounded look.
"Makes more sense if you watch a lot of British television," he admitted.
Ignoring the how, which it was usually better, legally speaking, not to know, Baird asked the question second-uppermost in her thoughts. "Why would you be watching British television? We live in the States."
"Doctor Who," began Ezekiel. "Miss Marple, Poirot, Morse, Lewis, Sherlock... Plus they have much more realistic soap operas than the States."
"There is no such thing as a realistic soap opera!" Baird forced out, shaking her head in bafflement and ringing the doorbell.
"I take exception to that statement!" Jones cried out, hammering on the ancient wooden doors.
"I don't care!" Baird called back.
The doors opened. A small, wizened woman, who looked like she'd come straight from a moorland in a Scottish Play, stood on the other side of the threshold. She looked at Baird. She looked at Jones. She narrowed her eyes at Jones and looked him up and down. She looked back to Baird.
"Castle's closed to visitors," barked the old woman with a islander's lilt. "Come back in April."
"We're from the Library," cut in Baird, one foot already blocking the door from shutting. "Galeas sent us."
The expression on the woman's face changed, first to even deeper suspicion, then to shock. She opened the door wider and ushered them in. She closed and locked the door behind them. She shepherded them through to a part of the hallway deeper inside the castle, away from prying eyes and ears at keyholes.
"Is this about the flag?" She asked in her strange lilt. "It hasn't been used again, you know. No matter what auld creaky says."
"Auld creaky?" Jones frowned.
"Aye, we always used to tease him that his bones creaked louder than his armour when I was young. He was old then, even as I am now, and I've lasted longer than I ought, let me tell you. Is he well?"
"Fighting fit," smiled Baird. "And you are?"
"Flora MacLeod, Caretaker of Dunvegan Castle, and housekeeper to the Clan Chief," announced the woman.
"MacLeod as in Clan MacLeod?" Baird frowned. "And you're the housekeeper?"
"I was matriarch of this clan for fifty years in my day," Flora replied. "Galeas is not the only one who has gone by many names in many lifetimes. What shall I call him now?"
"Jenkins," said Jones, watching the old woman as if she might turn him into a frog should he blink at the wrong moment.
"Hah!" Flora laughed, a short, sharp, brittle laugh. "One day, you must ask him where he came by that name! Not the name of a Celtic warrior that!"
"How did you two know each other?" Baird breathed, taken aback by the sense of history that filled the room.
"Ah, long story, old story," Flora waved the question away and led them to a room with some chairs and a table. She motioned for them to sit down. "Older than either of us would care to remember. For why did he send you?"
"We're looking for the Stone of Destiny," began Baird. "The real one."
"Bad guys are after it," added Jones. "We need to get there first."
"Aye that would have been after our time," Flora mused, lost in memories that crossed the passage of centuries. "De Brus came here, after his crowning, but no stone did he bring with him. I would have known."
"Do you know anything that can help us?" Baird pleaded.
"I know many things of that ilk, lassie," chortled the crone. "Not that you'll be needing them for a while though. Come, I'll show you that which I do know. At least of the stone of kings."
XXXX
Bothwell Castle rose majestically from the steep banks of the river Clyde. Cassandra wobbled on the rough terrain and Jacob instinctively steadied her. They had walked a good distance from the battered old hide their door had opened out of, set up along the banks of the Clyde where the water fowl could most easily be watched. The path had been muddy and beset with tree roots and rocks. Cassandra was sure her boots were ruined.
"Okay, I can see the castle," she huffed, craning her neck to look up at the weather worn russet walls. "How do we get to it?"
"We follow the path, darlin'," Jacob laughed, pointing out the way ahead through the bare branches of the trees. "That path will take us round the castle and up the hill. That's what our friendly neighbourhood dog walker told us. Follow the path past the castle then up the hill. Go through the gate, across the field and you'll come out by the car park. Can't miss it."
"I wish I'd worn my other boots," she sighed.
"You always say that," he reminded her. "Next pair you buy, for work, I'm coming with you."
"You always say that!" Cassie countered.