November 29, 1292
Scone, Scotland
​
Only a druid could hear the Stone. But the legends must be wrong, thought Morag, for she was just a kitchen maid and could sense it like the hiss of rain through the glen.
​ Lord Drummond’s household had traveled to Scone Abbey for the coronation of Scotland’s new king. They arrived in time for mass, and Morag squeezed in with the rest of the servants. With no grasp of the priest’s Latin, she looked around to study the church, the tallest building she had ever seen. Massive columns lifted the arched roof to the heavens. Intricate tracery windows pierced the walls and towered above the high altar lit by a forest of candles.​
A ripple of excitement ran through the congregation, and Morag stood on tiptoe to see. The Stone was being brought forth for the first time in forty years to prepare for tomorrow's coronation. Four monks threaded a long pole through a pair of iron rings embedded in a capstone in the floor. They lifted the block aside, revealing a small crypt. Within was the Stone of Destiny. The monks hoisted the Stone from the chamber as the abbot intoned a blessing. They gently placed it upon two small pillars to form the coronation throne.​
This was the symbolic moment Davy had described to Morag. The Stone, representing the king, was raised from among the people of Scotland and placed upon the twin pillars of the nobility and the church.
​Morag glimpsed the Stone through the crowd, candlelight dancing on its smooth black surface. Hissing murmurings infested her mind. They were too faint to decipher but spread unease. She shuddered. In Davy’s stories, the druids heard the Stone of Destiny roar with joy when the true king was crowned upon it. The druids were long gone, slaughtered by the Romans or burnt by the Christians, yet Morag was sure the Stone spoke to her. Pressure built in her chest as though she was trapped below a great weight, and she struggled to breathe.
The monks spread a silk cloth woven with gold over the Stone. The pressure released, and Morag gasped for air. The voice was gone.
​Morag glanced furtively at her neighbors to see if they had heard it too. One scratched idly while the other rested her eyes, tired from the long day. A few rows ahead, Morag could see Davy standing with his father. He seemed unaffected, probably trying to follow whatever the priest was saying. She looked back to the Stone, but her view was blocked by the people in front, and try as she might, she could no longer see it. Eventually, the service ended, and the congregation pushed her towards the door, leaving the Stone to its silent vigil before the high altar.
As they emerged into the cold evening air, the steward commanded his servants into action. There were tents to pitch and supper to cook. Resenting more hours of drudgery, Morag watched Davy follow his father to a bonfire where the knights gathed, greeting old friends and swapping stories. Morag and Davy had grown up together, playing in and around the castle, but since they had turned fourteen, Davy had become a squire to his father, Lord Drummond. Morag was just an orphan and was assigned more work in the kitchen. On the threshold of adulthood, their paths were diverging. He would become a knight with all the privileges of that role while she was doomed to a life of endless cooking and cleaning.
Morag glanced back at the abbey. Had the Stone really called to her, or was it her imagination primed with Davy’s stories of druids and magic? There was one way to find out. She could sneak in once everyone else went to bed. If caught, she would be in for a hiding, but she was beaten for trivial things and might as well be punished for something exciting. Had she been older, she might have resisted the urge; younger, and she wouldn’t have dared, but at fourteen, adventure was in her blood. Whatever happened, she would have a story to relieve the tedium of servitude.
​Exhausted, the household went to bed right after supper was cleared away. Morag lay down with the rest of the women, and soon, her neighbors drifted into sleep. She silently arose, picked her way through the recumbent bodies, and slipped from the tent. The abbey loomed above in the darkness, its spire pointing to the heavens.
As a servant, Morag was adept at moving unnoticed. She slunk through the array of tents. A few people were still up but paid her no heed. At the abbey door, gargoyles glared down, and Morag’s hand froze on the handle. She thought to turn away before it was too late, but she was so close. Taking a deep breath and ready to flee, she eased open the door. The church was empty, for the monks had finished vespers, and it would be many hours before they returned.
Swallowing her fear, Morag moved silently through the shadows to the altar. She knelt before the coronation throne, summoning the courage to lift the cloth. The whisper came again, urgent and insistent. The Stone of Destiny had a secret to tell, but the words were still faint, not the legendary roar it had given for the true kings on the Hill of Tara a thousand years before. Slowly, Morag uncoiled from her crouch, reaching for the Stone.
​​
Brother Andrew couldn’t sleep. As keeper of the Stone, he was responsible for its sacred role in tomorrow’s coronation and wanted to ensure all was in order. Andrew paced through the cloisters on sandaled feet, shivering from the chill night air. He eased open the door to the abbey, instinctively avoiding any sound.
The abbey was silent and deserted. Andrew made the sign of the cross as he paused to absorb the serenity of the church. He loved to come here at night when no one was around, especially if the moon shone through the clerestory, illuminating the nave with holy light. The last week had been a blur of activity, so a moment of peace was welcome.
There was faint noise in the depths of the church. Alarmed, Andrew hurried to the high altar, his lantern casting a small pool of light.
​
With trembling hands, Morag peeled back the cloth to reveal the Stone. Moonlight shimmered on its smooth black surface, and the whispers grew louder. Gently, she laid her hands upon the Stone. It was ice cold. She closed her eyes, and the vision of a chasm yawned, bringing a wave of vertigo. Her fingers gripped the Stone for balance. From afar, a voice shouted a command. She must go now, but the whisperings were forming urgent words; the meaning was coming, just one more second.
Sensing hands reaching for her, Morag ducked, spinning away. Her nimble body darted between the benches set out for the nobility, the narrow space impeding her pursuer. She dashed for the side entrance. Slamming the door, she disappeared into the dark maze of tents pitched around the church.
The words of the Stone were incomprehensible, whispered in strange Gaelic she had never heard before. Yet Morag could feel the distress; something was wrong. Fear stirred within, but then reason responded. She was just an imposter, listening where she didn’t belong. The warning must be for another who could understand and take action. Maybe the man who had chased her away. That gave comfort, but staring back at the abbey silhouetted against the night sky, she shivered. The Stone had called to her.
​
November 30, Saint Andrew’s Day, was chosen for the coronation to honor Scotland’s patron saint. The nobility and clergy had gathered at Scone and erected a city of brightly colored tents that jostled for space around the abbey. A knight stretched before one of the pavilions, welcoming the predawn twilight. Lord Drummond was in the prime of life at nigh on thirty-five years. His body was scarred with the wounds of past battles, but his muscles were taut. He hadn’t succumbed to the overindulgence of privilege.
It was time to don armor, so he summoned his squire. A scrawny lad stumbled bleary-eyed from the tent, stifling a yawn. Just promoted from page to squire, Davy was anxious to properly fulfill his new duties.
“Come, it’s time to prepare.”
Davy helped his father pull on a heavy coat of chainmail. They covered it with the Drummond surcoat of three red waves on a field of gold, then buckled his sword belt. All around, the tent city came alive, and soon a crowd formed by the abbey.
To the last tones of matins, a procession of monks emerged from the west portal. Four bore the Stone of Destiny covered with its silken cloth woven with gold. Brother Andrew paced alongside. Worried by last night’s intruder, he ensured no one got too close. The crowd parted, allowing the monks to ascend the mound known as Moot Hill. Under Andrew’s wary eye, they hefted the Stone from the litter to place it upon the two pillars. Andrew carefully checked its stability, then backed away with a sigh of relief. The coronation throne of Scotland was ready to receive the new king.
Dressed in his regal finery, Sir John Balliol followed the monks to take his seat on the throne. Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham, stood before him, arms raised for silence, then began to preach as the congregation grew still.
Drummond had found a place at the back, away from the jostling crowds. The raised mound afforded everyone a view, and he saw no reason to get too close. He scanned the assembly of knights in their colorful surcoats, clergy in their cassocks, and commoners on the fringes.
Laying his hands upon Balliol’s head, Bishop Bek gave the benediction. The congregation responded, “Amen,” bringing Drummond back to the moment.
“Amen,” he added belatedly, though he feared Balliol’s reign would not be blessed.
The royal poet, dressed in flowing robes, advanced to stand beside the king. In dramatic tones that carried to the limits of the assembly, he recited the genealogy of the King of Scots from ancient times. Reaching back sixteen hundred years, the list was long, and Balliol would be the hundredth name.
Again, Drummond’s eyes drifted over the crowd. His heart missed a beat, and he turned back to study a group at the edge of the clearing. He felt he had seen a face he knew long ago that had once been dear to him. But, no, they were just peasants.
The chronicle of names complete, Bishop Bek motioned to an aging knight, John de St. John, who stepped forward bearing the crown. A murmur of discontent buzzed through the crowd. Drummond shared their ire. The humiliation begins, he thought, for Englishmen bestow our Scottish crown. Are we to be vassals of King Edward of England and Balliol a mere puppet?
The crown was placed on the head of Balliol to the cheers of his kinsmen, the powerful Comyn clan. Other lords watched silently while Robert the Bruce and his kin were ominously absent. King Balliol rose to solemnly take the coronation oath. Finally, the assembled nobles pledged fealty to their new sovereign. Drummond reluctantly knelt and gave his word with the rest.
Among the mass of servants in the background, Morag turned away. The Stone of Destiny hadn’t roared with joy, but that was no surprise, for she had known it would not.
The November sun had set hours earlier, but Scone was alive with hundreds of campfires and torches that lit a great feast on the greensward before the abbey. Ale flowed freely, releasing the tensions of the coronation. Musicians filled the air with ballads and reels.
Morag had been busy bearing food from the cooking fires, but the meal was finally over. Seeking a moment’s rest, she drifted away into the lines of tents to sink into the shadows. She watched the dancers spinning through the smoke-filled air, silhouetted against the bonfires. She longed to join them whirling in a reel but knew she would be pulled away to new chores.
The message of the Stone nagged Morag. Why did it foretell tragedy? After six years of uncertainty, Scotland finally had a new king, and the people were celebrating. It was thrilling that the Stone had spoken to her. Could she be a druid and not know? Sometimes she felt destined for a better life than servitude, but maybe everyone did. The danger of her trespassing slowly sank in. The Stone must be her secret, lest she be accused of being a druid.
The dance ended, and the music changed to a haunting ballad. Morag looked around. She should go back to work but was savoring her moment of solitude. Beyond the tents, an evening mist rolled out from the woods, shrouding the trees. In the fog, a light flickered. A single candle, maybe. What was out there?
Mother Ross would say, “Dinna scald your mouth wi’ other folk’s kale,”, but Scone was an otherworldly place filled with mystery, and she needed to know what was happening. Deep down, she felt the light was a beacon for her.
Careful to remain unseen, Morag crept along the line of tents, away from the feast. The notes of the ballad faded as she moved into the mist. The light flickered in and out of sight. She knew that will-o’-the-wisps lured the unwary into marshes, never to be seen again, yet she hurried on, anxious not to lose the dancing light.
A shape materialized from the fog, and Morag froze. Stooped with age, an old woman peered up from under heavy eyebrows. She offered a thistle. “A gift for thee, maid of Drummond.”
Morag instinctively reached for the flower, its purple head dry and fading. “How do you know me?”
“I’m a spaewife. Let me read your fate.”
Morag tensed as the woman grasped her hand. Instinct said to pull away, but the need to know drove her on. The woman gently traced the lines on Morag’s palm, then closed her eyes, rocking slowly back and forth.
All was quiet, the music muted by the fog. The woods seemed to fade as though Morag was being transported to another place long ago. She shivered, sensing evil. Again, she thought to pull away, but the woman spoke.
“In the coming time of darkness and despair,
Your fate is entangled with the raven and the lion's lair.
You will cross the water to stem the tide,
But danger lurks upon the other side.
For power breeds a jealous ire
That may lead you to the cleansing fire.”
Morag snatched her hand back, eyeing the seer with distrust.
Another woman appeared from the trees, tall and graceful, with long dark hair. She rested her hand on the shoulder of the spaewife but looked directly at Morag. “Be not afraid, my child. Though the lords may fail us, the people can rise to save our country. I see you among them.”
“How can that be? I’m but a servant, not a warrior.”
“There are more ways to fight than with the sword. You entered the abbey. Did you touch the Stone?”
Morag glanced sharply at her.
“Did it speak to you?”
“Aye.”
“Then you are indeed one of us, for it only calls to those with the ear and the sight. But tell no one.”
“What does this mean?”
“Alas, we have but a stolen moment. Know that though strife awaits, and all will seem lost, we’re here for you.” The woman stiffened. “Someone this way comes; we must be gone. In the years ahead, when the time is right, ask Greer and look for us in the Dell of Schiehallion. Now go!”
The steward yelled through the fog, “Morag! Stop shirking; come do your work!”
The old woman held out the thistle once more. “All hail Morag, thou shalt be the Phantom Queen hereafter.”
Morag grasped the flower and flinched as the spines pricked her thumb. The women melted into the mist. She thought to follow, but the steward shouted again. Reluctantly, she stepped back from the trees.
“Where’ve you been, you laggard?”
“Call o’ nature,” Morag replied, straightening her tunic. She pushed past and hurried into the tent city.
​
Morag slept poorly, dreams of battles and fire tumbling through her mind. She was awoken before dawn by the din of servants preparing to leave. Breakfast, a mere heel of bread, sat sour in her stomach as she packed up the cooking pots.
What had seemed so real last night appeared a fantasy in the cool light of dawn. Could the spaewives' prophecies be true, or were they charlatans conjuring tales for the gullible? The future they foretold was frightening, yet also intriguing, for Morag yearned to escape the drudgery of the kitchen.
The people were dispersing to the corners of the kingdom, for Scone was a temporary city of celebration. As the tents were torn down and packed away, so were Morag’s dreams. They were unreachable. She climbed onto the rear of the wagon that would take her home, where she was no one and nothing happened.
Legs dangling, heart heavy, Morag watched the abbey recede. She stiffened as she caught a glimpse of the tall woman amongst those left behind. The woman gazed back before being swallowed by the crowd. Morag reached for the thistle she had stuck in her belt, but it was gone, lost in the rush of leaving.