The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  Henry wheezed and expressed his irritation at the intervention of his chamberlain. ‘What is it, Sir Thomas? Can you not see I am busy?’

  Dalyson inclined his head in deference to the King’s righteous annoyance. But his tone of voice still betrayed his own irritation. ‘Forgive me, Majesty. I had thought you wished to know about the matter I have come to advise you of. But as I can see that your conversation with the bishop is concerning greater matters of state, I will wait until a more . . . propitious time to tell you of the sky-stone.’

  Dalyson knew that his final word would attract the attention of the King, but he was surprised to hear a gasp from the lips of the bishop, too. And then to witness the exchange of looks between the two powerful men. Had they been talking about the very item he had at last tracked down? He had thought it a distraction – a bauble to amuse the King in his dotage. Did it have more significance than he had first imagined? He stored the thought away in his head for further consideration.

  ‘You have found it? Is it here?’

  Dalyson shook his head. ‘Not yet, Majesty. It appears that some Jew took it from Norwich and sold it to a teacher at the university in Oxford. Envoys have been sent to bring it to you, and it should be no more than a week before you will have it.’

  Henry’s piping, old-man’s voice rose in horror. ‘A week? I could be dead before then.’

  Dalyson refrained from saying he hoped so, and shook his head in obsequious denial. ‘No, no, Majesty. You will live for ever, I am sure of it. Do you wish me to call your . . . doctors over?’

  Henry’s face fell. ‘No need, Dalyson. Look behind you. They anticipate my demise sooner than you do.’

  Indeed, all three quacks had hurried over to the King’s bedside at the first sound of pain and horror in their patient’s voice. Brother Mark made it to the bedside first and asked his patient to show his tongue. As the King meekly stuck the aforementioned appendage out, the Dominican hovered like an angel of death, sucking in his breath. He clearly did not like what he saw. Dalyson left Mark and his colleagues to it, and turned to speak to the Bishop of Narbonne. But the man was no longer present, having silently left the bedchamber already. Dalyson felt a shiver run down his spine. The man was unnatural in his ability to appear and disappear so quietly.

  Pierre of Narbonne was angry, but he did not show it. His emissary to the Norwich Jews had failed by a whisker, and now he was reliant on an old and petulant monarch. He prided himself on never showing any feelings, and knew how still and impenetrable his eyes were. But back in the sumptuous rooms he had been allocated in Westminster Palace, he picked up a silver platter and gave in to the pure pleasure of throwing it across the room. It thudded into the tapestry that hung on the wall and fell to the stone floor with a clatter. A whey-faced servant appeared at the open doorway, and the bishop, his temper spent, waved for him to clear the dish, now bent on one rim. When the man had left, his task complete, Narbonne knelt at the improvised altar in his room, lifting his palms so the purple sleeves of his tunic fell away from them. He began to pray, playing with the ancient words of Pope Leo the Great.

  ‘ “But this Nativity which is to be adored in heaven and on earth is suggested to us by no day more than this when, with the early light still shedding its rays on nature, there is borne in upon our senses the brightness of this wondrous mystery.” ’

  Only he knew to what mystery he was referring, and he intended to keep the secret in his heart. Until the day he could lay his hands on the sky-stone.

  The sacred stone.

  Unconcerned by the scandalous nature of their relationship, Falconer and Saphira Le Veske walked through the streets of Oxford, exchanging opinions on all sorts of matters. Neither could say who was the tyro and who the dominie, for they could vie with each other in different areas of knowledge. At the moment they turned into Kibald Street, where stood Aristotle’s Hall, Saphira had the upper hand. They were discussing medicines, and she had learned her trade from old Samson in Jewry.

  ‘Belladonna may be a poison in itself, but it can be used in small quantities as an antidote to poisoning by amanita mushrooms.’

  Falconer nodded, then came back with a rejoinder that he hoped would silence her. ‘It is also written that cat’s brain is a poison. As is menstrual blood.’

  Saphira’s laughter was like a peal of sweet-sounding bells. ‘Do you think to shock me into submission, William? It will take more than a reference to a woman’s curse to do that.’

  She was about to continue when Falconer laid a hand on her bare arm. She looked at him, then followed his eyes down the lane. At the entrance to Aristotle’s Hall stood a little knot of students, evidently in some sort of quandary. Saphira recognized the Mithian brothers, and one or two others who were William’s students and lodgers in his hall.

  ‘What is going on, William?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think we are about to find out.’

  He nodded his head in the direction of Peter Mithian, who, having spotted his master, was hurrying towards the couple. His eyes were wide with shock, and as he approached he waved his hand behind him. ‘Master, they have come for you.’

  Falconer grasped the older Mithian brother by the arm and tried to calm him down. ‘Come for me? Who have come for me?’

  The boy could hardly contain himself. ‘They have. Envoys from the King, they said. They wanted to know where you were. And when we said you were not home, they went upstairs nevertheless. They are in your solar.’

  ‘Are they indeed.’

  Falconer’s face was grim, and he made to go towards the hall, and its intruders. Saphira held him back, though.

  ‘Think first, William. Why are they seeking you out? Would it not be better to retreat? You may be going into danger.’

  It was not long since Falconer had been on trial for murder thanks to a trumped-up charge laid by the chancellor of the university. If this was more mischief of a similar type, she feared for Falconer’s safety. But he refused to consider the danger.

  ‘Chancellor Bek has been ousted from his post, and my reputation is unstained. Well, no more stained than it was before. No, I think I should find out what this is all about.’

  ‘Then I shall come with you.’

  He smiled at Saphira. ‘With you to protect me, I cannot be in any danger. Come. Let us see what the King wants of me.’

  Pushing through the group of students in the doorway, Falconer and Saphira crossed the communal hall and ascended the creaky wooden stairs up to the private room under the rafters. Falconer almost expected his solar to be in chaos, ravaged by a band of careless soldiers. What he found was an elegantly garbed young man seated at his oak table flanked by two armed soldiers. Falconer had been a mercenary in his youth, and he knew signs of good discipline when he saw them. The impassive look on the soldiers’ faces barely flickered when he entered. The elegant youth, however, rose and smiled pleasantly.

  ‘Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy, regent master, but I come on urgent business.’

  ‘The King’s business, I am led to believe.’

  The courtier inclined his head slightly and almost blushed at the perceived compliment made to his importance.

  ‘I must admit I am honoured to serve our King. My name is John Zellot. But may I first ask . . . these texts—’ he indicated two scrolls that Falconer had pushed aside when he had placed the sky-stone on the table ‘—this is in Hebrew, and this in Arabic, yes?’

  Falconer was surprised at Zellot’s knowledge, for the two texts were indeed in the languages he ascribed to them. They were translations of the same treatise originally written in Greek by the great physician Galen. Falconer had been comparing them to come to a clearer understanding of the subject.

  ‘Yes. They concern the medical practice of bloodletting.’

  Zellot nodded, as if he was familiar with the topic. ‘Ah, yes. His Majesty is well acquainted with that practice.’ He could do little more than recognize the scripts but had deliberately
used his limited knowledge of languages to seek a rapport with the master. Now he could move on. ‘But I have come on another matter. It concerns this stone.’

  He pointed with his neatly gloved hand to the dark grey sky-stone that lay in the centre of the table. Falconer cast a sideways glance at Saphira and stepped up to the table, quickly picking the stone up. Suddenly, it seemed as if the two soldiers flanking the courtier swayed in a breeze. Their initial aggressive movement was a reaction to Falconer’s swift step forward. But almost immediately they were checked by a slight twitch of Zellot’s gloved hand. They returned to their former impassivity as if nothing had happened except the slightest of movements. Falconer smiled and hefted the stone in his palm.

  ‘The King is interested in this?’

  ‘Yes. Or more accurately its . . . medicinal properties. We are prepared to pay well for it.’

  Falconer snapped his fist closed over the stone. ‘No.’

  The courtier seemed a little perturbed by Falconer’s refusal to part with the stone, but he recovered himself well. He managed a smile without actually feeling any pleasure – a useful attribute in the corridors of Westminster Palace – and inclined his head in curiosity.

  ‘No?’

  ‘It is not for sale. But I will make it a gift to the King, on the condition that I can present it to him myself.’

  This time the courtier smiled genuinely. Zellot thought he had seen right through this Oxford master to the heart of his venality. He wanted to speak to the King in hopes of some worldly reward far greater than mere coinage. Some valuable sinecure, perhaps. Well, he would give him his day at court, but he would find out soon enough how petulant the old King could be. He held out his hand. ‘Of course. It is a bargain.’

  Falconer, who had seen a chance to observe for himself how the highest in the land behaved, and not thinking of any other reward but a satisfaction of his curiosity, added a condition. He cocked a thumb at Saphira Le Veske, who had stood silently in the corner marvelling at William’s boldness. ‘And I shall be accompanied by my companion, who is an expert on medicines. She may be of help to the King.’

  He refrained from saying out loud that she was likely to be more help to him than a lump of stone that had fallen from the sky. Zellot nodded.

  ‘You may bring her. The King is always eager to consult another physician.’

  The two men shook hands on the deal, and within a short while the oddly matched party had readied themselves, hired horses at Zellot’s expense and were on their way to London.

  For the first time in days, Henry had struggled out of his bed and called for his wardroper, Ralph, to assist him in dressing. He always felt at a disadvantage when receiving the Bishop of Narbonne in his bedchamber. Truth to tell, the cleric scared him, what with his dark pools of eyes and his secretive talk of the sacred stone and its powers. Henry was determined the bishop was not going to lay his hands on the stone, however. It was for the sake of his own health that he had sought it out. Suddenly, he felt as if his arm was being torn out of its socket.

  ‘What are you doing, man? You are ripping me apart.’

  Ralph grovelled before His Majesty, apologizing for his rough awkwardness in pulling Henry’s tunic over his arm. He was normally so adept in assisting the King to dress, but his son’s illness weighed heavily on his mind. The boy was wasting away before his parents’ eyes. And the healer woman he had paid out royally for had taken one look at little Robin and shook her head sadly. He could not accept, however, that there was nothing to be done. His sad thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp prod. The King had dug a bony finger in his chest.

  ‘Pay attention, Ralph, or I shall have to replace you.’

  ‘Majesty, forgive me.’

  Once again Ralph apologized abjectly. He had been wool-gathering, when his duty was to pay full attention to the King. He concentrated enough to help Henry don the rest of his clothes, and assisted him to the grand oak chair that stood at the other end of the chamber to the King’s bed. Having eased his tired body down, Henry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Ralph was glad to escape with his job still intact, but first he had to tidy the rest of the King’s clothes that lay creased and rumpled in the chest at the foot of his bed. His presence was completely ignored as the King’s chamberlain, Sir Thomas Dalyson, entered, followed by the French bishop. He concentrated on his task, making himself as insignificant as possible to these great men. But his son’s fate still hung heavily on his mind.

  Dalyson was surprised to see the King sitting up in his chair. The last time he had spoken to the physicians who attended Henry, they had assured him the King was near death. His face was indeed gaunt, resembling parchment stretched over a skull, but his eyes were unusually bright for once. The bishop strode over to the King of England and graciously bowed his head in deference. He even refrained from expressing any annoyance when Henry suggested he draw up a nearby stool, a seat that left the bishop perched at a lower level than the monarch. But for Narbonne what was at stake was more important than mere pride. The bishop’s eyes fixed eagerly on the older man.

  ‘Tell me, Majesty, have you found it?’

  Henry looked at his chamberlain, who was hovering at the back of the room, close to the King’s dishevelled bed. ‘Tell him, Dalyson.’

  Sir Thomas took a step or two closer. ‘Indeed we have, my lord. The stone was said to have been in the possession of old Elias of Norwich. He denied it when . . . questioned, saying it had been stolen from him long ago. He did tell us that somehow it ended up in the hands of an itinerant Jew, who sold it to another of his kind in Oxford. However, as the Jews are no more than the property of the King, it should be no great problem to retrieve the stone. We have dispatched an eager young man called Zellot, who will be back with it by the end of the week. If he values his future.’

  The bishop nodded and turned back to the King. ‘Good. May we then talk in private, Majesty?’

  Dalyson blushed at the rude dismissal but backed graciously out of the room, leaving the two great men to their business. Henry was a little surprised at his chamberlain’s rapid acceding to Narbonne’s request – he was normally prickly about his position at court – but put it out of his mind as the bishop began to tell him the story of the sky-stone. Engrossed, he went to touch the seal ring on his right hand, as he often did from habit, but realized the finger was bare. He reasoned that, as his fingers had grown thin of late, the ring must have slipped off. He would have to alert Dalyson to its loss as soon as possible, but the tale the bishop was telling was for the moment too intriguing to ignore. The power of the stone to heal and cure fascinated Henry. Neither man noticed the insignificant figure of the King’s wardroper slipping quietly out of the bedchamber.

  By pushing the horses to their limit, John Zellot ensured that his small party reached London in the middle of the third day after leaving Oxford. They were tired and covered in dust, but he had achieved his goal of returning within the week. The King would be well pleased, and Zellot hoped for a good reward. He settled the Oxford master and his red-haired strumpet in the guest rooms at Westminster and hurried off, still sweat-stained, to report to Sir Thomas Dalyson. Walking through the corridors of the court, he was suddenly a little fearful that he had not exactly done as he was told but had needed to bring two people with him. And they were people who still laid claim to the possession of the stone. He slowed his pace as his mind raced, trying to find the best way to explain the situation. Perhaps the King would excuse him, if he could present the two people as wise physicians. It was well known the King liked to surround himself with quacks and their opinions. He decided that was a plausible excuse, and once again strode more purposefully along the palace’s gloomy corridors.

  Meanwhile, Saphira Le Veske, unaware that she was perceived as William’s whore, was pacing the rooms they had been put in. She began castigating Falconer for getting them into this mad situation. ‘Do you not realize that we Jews are seen as the King’s property? He has already m
ortgaged us once to his brother, Richard, who then taxed us to recoup his outlay. If he chose, Henry could merely demand I give him the sky-stone, and there is nothing I could do.’

  Unperturbed, Falconer lounged comfortably on the cushions that adorned the outer room. He was unused to such luxury, but he thought he could come to like this life. He felt like a perfumed Saracen in his harem and waved a dismissive hand at Saphira. ‘But there is no problem there. You gave the stone to me as a gift. So it is mine to dispose of as I wish. Not yours.’

  Saphira stooped over him, poking his chest with an elegant finger. ‘So you value my gift so slightly that you would give it away without a second thought?’

  Falconer grabbed her outstretched arm and pulled her to him, laughing. ‘I could always offer you as my gift to the King.’

  Saphira pushed him away in horror. ‘Don’t even jest, William.’

  Their situation did not seem to worry William, but she was frightened that there might be spies in every dark corner in this palace, listening to their every word. Falconer, realizing he had overstepped the mark, sat up. ‘No, you are right. The situation is serious. It does occur to me, though, that you might use some of your expert knowledge of medicines. Mix him a potion. You might even make the King grateful to at least one Jew for prolonging his life.’