‘The stone,’ she said, ‘St Angus’ stone. I think he must be under it.’
‘Very likely,’ agreed Gil, taking the candle from her. ‘Shall we go out now? It’s a long ride to Stirling.’
‘Yes, we should go,’ said Alys, still looking at the stone. She bent, tracing the outline chiselled in the sandstone. ‘It isn’t local stone. Do you suppose it’s a portrait of St Angus?’
‘Tomb slabs usually are, aren’t they?’ Gil took hold of her elbow, drawing her away. ‘Mind you, his head must have been on the small side.’
‘Yes,’ she said, studying the outline again, the long robe and broad shoulders, the hands cradling the chalice. ‘Yes, let’s go. It will be good to go home.’