The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  Saphira sat up, holding the slipping blanket over her bare breasts, much to William’s regret. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘The Roman emperor Heliogabalus was its high priest, and there were tales of castration and human sacrifice levelled against him by more conservative historians.’

  Saphira frowned. ‘Just the sort of accusations thrown at us Jews now, then.’

  Falconer nodded. ‘And probably for the same reasons. To denigrate and destroy the religion. It is said that the cult of Sol Invictus did not survive the death of Emperor Heliogabalus. Others say it was driven under ground. So who knows if it survives to this day?’

  Saphira was about to respond when a great cry was heard far off in another part of the palace. Running feet could soon be heard pounding along the corridor outside their door. Saphira tensed and held the blanket close to her with clenched fists. Falconer stroked her bare shoulder to assuage her fears.

  ‘It’s all right. They are going elsewhere in the palace. Wait here. I will get dressed and see what is happening.’

  He swung his legs out of the bed, half forgetting how high it was off the ground compared with the familiar pallet in his solar back in Oxford. Saphira grabbed his arm as he steadied himself.

  ‘Take care.’

  Falconer nodded his reassurance and quickly donned his old black robe and boots. Cramming his pileum on his head, he opened the door a crack and slipped through. After he had gone, Saphira could still hear cries of anger and alarm echoing down the corridors of Westminster. She sat on the bed for as long as she could bear, then she, too, got up and stepped into her gown. Curiosity overcoming her fears, she followed the sound of loud voices in the same direction Falconer had gone.

  Falconer found that the babble of sound was leading him towards the King’s chamber. He wondered if Henry had at last died, and the noise was the confusion associated with his passing. Henry had been King for so long that few people alive could recall anyone else ever being on the throne of England. And Henry’s son and heir, Prince Edward, was in the Holy Lands on crusade. Such a situation could lead to total chaos. However, as Falconer turned the corner of the corridor that led to Henry’s private bedchamber, he heard the piping voice of the King. He was still alive, and very perturbed, it seemed.

  ‘Where is it? Where is it?’

  Falconer could hear a note of panic in the tones as he approached the door. A bodyguard, who had clearly donned his coat of mail too hastily and was still struggling with it, made to prevent his entry. Then suddenly the King’s cries turned into a hacking cough that went on and on without cease. Dalyson appeared at the door, dressed in a white and voluminous nightgown, damp at the edges. His hair for once was dishevelled. He stopped abruptly in front of Falconer.

  ‘Get in there and try to calm him, for God’s sake. I must call his physicians.’

  The bodyguard reluctantly stepped back and allowed Falconer to pass. But before he entered the room, the regent master asked Dalyson a question. ‘What is it the King has lost that perturbs him so?’

  Dalyson grimaced. ‘Not lost. Stolen, he says. It is that damned stone you brought him.’

  As Dalyson retreated down the corridor in search of the three physicians, Falconer took a deep breath and went into the presence of the King.

  Saphira had to admit her sense of direction was not as unerring as William’s, and after the initial turmoil had died down there was nothing to guide her. She wished she had paid more attention when Sir Thomas Dalyson had led herself and Falconer to the King’s chamber earlier. But she had been so wrapped up in her own fears that she had ignored which way they had turned. So when she came to the end of a narrow corridor and found a locked door before her, she paused. Turning back, she began to retrace her steps. At an unfamiliar junction, she realized she was lost and, thinking she heard the soft sound of bare feet, called out. ‘Hello? Can you help me? I am lost.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then once again what sounded like bare feet hurrying away. She walked slowly in the direction the sounds had come from, suddenly cautious and alert to danger. She had called out loudly, so whoever it was had made the noises must have heard her. So why had they run away? Peering around a corner, she saw that she was entering an unlit room filled with large barrels. She must have found her way to the kitchens, or some storage room. The nearest barrel was almost chest high; whatever the contents were, some of it had splashed out very recently. Pools of liquid darkened the flagstones on the floor around the barrel. She crouched down and dipped her fingers in the puddle. Touching her fingers to her lips, she realized the liquid was merely water. Other equipment she could now discern in the gloom told her this was a brewhouse. She guessed that a palace the size of Westminster required prodigious quantities of ale. No one would drink plain water out of the river, so weak ale was required for everyday consumption. She hoped she had not caught anything by sucking on her wet fingers. She reasoned that it probably was not the case from such small quantities, even though there were many rats swimming in the Thames and its tributaries. Idly, she peered in the open top of the barrel. The dead eyes of Ralph Wardroper stared back up at her from under the water. She gasped and ran back down the dark corridor to call for help.

  The man dressed in chain mail whom she ran into in the maze of corridors leading from the brewhouse took her for a dangerous intruder. Dressed as she was in a simple green gown, barefoot, with her thick red hair, uncovered and sticking out in tangles from her head, he assumed she was no lady. In fact, her wild claims of dead men in barrels made him think she was a madwoman. He called for assistance, and he and his two companions overpowered the lunatic, dragging her to the brewhouse to confront her delusion. The sight of the drowned man in the water barrel changed their minds. They now decided she was not only a madwoman but a murderer, too. Saphira soon sat shivering in a cold cell deep below the King’s rooms. It was what seemed like an eternity before rescue came.

  Sir Thomas Dalyson soon heard the reports of a madwoman loose in the palace and thanked God that she had been apprehended. When he heard that she had red hair, he knew who she was, and he knew he would have to look into the matter further. He didn’t care about what William Falconer might say. But the regent master’s whore had found a place in the heart of the King, and the King would probably want to know where she was. Especially when Megrim, Rixe and Brother Mark failed to calm him down over the loss of the stone. He then pondered the possibility of killing two birds with one stone, and ensuring that the woman was found guilty of the murder she stood accused of. He thought he could arrange that before even the King and Falconer heard of the matter. But before he was able to set the matter in train, he was summoned to the King’s bedside. Entering the dark and stale-smelling room, he saw the familiar trio of physicians, heads together, arguing, as always. Close by the bed of the King sat the tall, calm figure of the regent master from Oxford. Shockingly, Falconer seemed to be laughing at one of Henry’s tantrums. Did the man not know who he was mocking?

  Falconer leaned towards the King as the figure of the chamberlain strode over. He whispered in Henry’s ear. ‘Here comes your trained monkey, Majesty. Too late, as always.’

  The King momentarily forgot the gravity of the situation and sniggered. Then he put on his most serious face. ‘Sir Thomas, what have you done to get my stone back? This is a most serious affair.’

  He could not help a whine growing in his voice. He was scared that without the sacred stone his health might deteriorate once more. Someone who wanted him dead must have taken it. He even suspected that one of his physicians might have secreted it away out of jealousy.

  Dalyson bowed low. ‘The matter is being looked into, Majesty. But many strange things are happening at the moment.’

  The King looked at him with suspicion written on his face. ‘Strange things? What strange things?’

  Dalyson took a quick decision to change his angle of attack concerning the woman. ‘There has been a murder.’

  Falconer’s eyes lit u
p, and he looked closely at the chamberlain. ‘A murder? Who has been killed, and where?’

  Dalyson chose to ignore the meddling master, and addressed the King. ‘Majesty, I regret to inform you that your wardroper, Ralph, has been drowned.’

  The King stirred weakly in his bed. ‘Ralph? Damn the man for a fool; he knows I prefer him dressing me. He doesn’t pull me about like the others.’

  Henry made it seem as though Ralph had committed a treasonable act by allowing himself to be murdered, and thereby depriving his King of one of his little comforts in life.

  Falconer ignored the man’s petulance and pressed Dalyson for more information. ‘Is there no hue and cry? I hear nothing.’

  Dalyson smirked. ‘There was no need. The killer was found immediately and is imprisoned already.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Once again, Dalyson turned his back on Falconer’s question, speaking only to Henry. ‘Majesty, I regret to inform you that the woman, Le Veske, is the killer.’

  To Dalyson’s astonishment, the King suddenly screwed up his face, which was already turning bright red, and spat a command at his chamberlain. ‘Do not be stupid, man. It could not be her. Go this instant and release her. And when you have apologized to her, bring her to me.’

  Humiliated, Sir Thomas Dalyson scurried out of the room to do the King’s bidding.

  Meanwhile, Henry, calm once more, turned to Falconer and winked. ‘Now, regent master, how are we to solve this little murder case of mine?’

  Once Saphira had been restored to the bedside of the King, Falconer relaxed a little and coached the King in how he might pursue the case. He began with asking about the hours around the time Ralph was last seen alive.

  ‘I remember Ralph was in the room when I gave you the stone. Right up to the point when the bishop called it a sacred stone. Was that the last time you saw him, Majesty?’

  ‘No, no. Of course not. Who do you think undressed me last night? He left around compline, as I couldn’t sleep.’ The King seemed to drift off for a moment, then sat up. ‘I still had the stone then.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the stone. So that disappeared after Ralph had left your chamber?’

  The King nodded. ‘Do you think its theft has something to do with Ralph’s death?’

  Saphira answered the King’s question. ‘William does not believe in coincidences, Majesty. One event is more often than not connected with the other.’

  Falconer was quick to throw in a word of caution. ‘Even so, we should not rush to simple conclusions. Remember the syllogism. Many small truths, when seen all together, can add up to a larger truth not previously imagined.’

  The King slapped the surface of the bed beside him in impatience. ‘But what are these truths that we must gather? How can we tell what is significant and what is not?’

  ‘That is the problem, Majesty. You never know an important fact from an insignificant one until you have accumulated them.’

  Falconer could see that the King didn’t appreciate the meticulous nature of deduction. He posed Henry a question. ‘Did anything else unusual happen yesterday?’

  ‘Well, you were here when some supplicant tried to wheedle his way into my presence. Does that count?’

  ‘It depends. What do you recall of the occurrence?’

  Henry tried to marshal his thoughts.

  He was agitated and frustrated. He had now been confined to his bed for weeks, and none of the doctors would look him in the eye when he asked what ailed him. But they were all fools, because he knew anyway – the infirmities of age were catching up on him. More fool him for paying good money to doctors for not telling him this obvious truth. What frustrated him most were the gaps in his recollection of events. Only the other day he had lost his seal ring, and without it he could not endorse any of his edicts.

  And had he not summoned the archbishop before sext, and was it not now nearly nones? He could have died unshriven in the time it took for that fat oaf to get to his bedside. He shuddered at the prospect of not reaching the kingdom of heaven, after all the money he had poured into the abbey and St Edward’s tomb. The only crumb of comfort was the arrival of this Oxford master with the sky-stone. It now lay comforting and heavy on his stomach, reminding him of its presence. For the first time in ages he was taking an interest in his surroundings. He wanted to know more about William Falconer. And his pretty whore, the Jewess. Suddenly, he was aware of everyone in the chamber staring at the stone, including Ralph, his wardroper, still fussing with his linen as though reluctant to leave. That was when he ordered everyone out of his chamber save the master and his woman.

  The commotion had begun just after he was beginning to enjoy their company. One voice was unfamiliar, but the other was clearly Sir Thomas Dalyson’s. Both voices were muffled by the trusty oak door that protected the King’s person, but for a moment the man’s voice rang out loud and clear. He remembered what was said.

  ‘The King is being duped.’

  Then the stranger’s voice was suddenly stifled. Dalyson had entered his bedchamber, and whoever it was had been seen off.

  ‘Duped?’ asked the curious master.

  The King eased his bony frame against the cushions whose softness seemed to have turned to stone. ‘I’m always having hangers-on questioning my decisions.’

  Saphira then asked the question that had been on Falconer’s lips. Both had been recalling the scene they had witnessed yesterday. ‘Sir Thomas whispered something to you when he first came in.’

  The King looked a little furtive briefly, then passed off the whispered exchange as unimportant. ‘It was nothing more than what he then said out loud in your presence. The intruder was someone whose lands I had transferred to another, and he had come to petition me. The man must have committed some serious crime to warrant the loss of his lands. Though be damned if I can remember what it was.’

  He sighed, and his eyes glazed over as once again he drifted off towards the other world that beckoned him. Anxiously, the regent master leaned forward to ensure that Henry was doing no more than merely dozing. It would not do to have the King of England expire in the presence of a renegade Oxford master and a Jew. Henry’s breathing was shallow but regular, and Falconer silently beckoned Saphira to follow him out of the room.

  Once outside, he whispered to her. ‘Show me where you found the body. And then I would like to take a look at Ralph for myself.’

  The Bishop of Narbonne waited until the wife of the dead man had left the little side chapel where Ralph’s body lay. Events had overtaken his seeking out Dalyson and had led him to the corpse. Now he did not want anyone to know what he intended to do. The newly widowed woman spent what seemed like an interminable time with the skinny little corpse, weeping and touching him. She straightened his wet hair and tidied his robe, which was still clinging wetly to his frame. She appeared oblivious to the water that dripped off the edge of the slab on which Ralph lay. It pooled at her feet, and the hem of her dress got wetter and wetter as the woollen material soaked the water up. Finally, she gave up her vigil and, pulling her wet skirts around her ankles, hurried off.

  Pierre de Montbrun took his chance and slipped out of the shadows. He wanted to finish what he had begun earlier in the night. But he could see instantly that the stone was not on the body. Ralph’s clothes clung so tightly to him that there was no possibility the stone was hidden in them, and he had no purse about him. Maybe the wife had removed it. Instinctively, he turned and dashed away in the same direction as the stout lady with the wet hem. On the way, he almost bumped into the Oxford master and his delectable companion.

  Once he had mumbled an apology and departed, Saphira offered an opinion. ‘I would not have expected the great bishop to have been mourning at the bier of a lowly servant.’

  Falconer tended to agree with Saphira’s assessment. ‘Perhaps he was here for another reason.’

  He looked closely at the body on the slab but could see no sign of interference with it, other than his hair being
tidied. Narbonne had not searched Ralph, or done anything to disturb the body. Neither could Falconer see anything that offered him a clue to the murder. Ralph had been drowned in a butt of water, presumably by a man bigger and stronger than he. Falconer had been shown the brewhouse by Saphira and noted that the upper edge of the barrel was chest high. Whoever tipped Ralph into it must have overpowered him sufficiently to lift him high in the air. But the former wardroper was a skinny individual and looked even more so in death, with his thin robe clinging to his frame. It would not have taken much for a well-made man to force him over the lip of the barrel and hold his head under the water. There had been considerable displacement of water, and many splash marks stretching out from the barrel. Enough to suggest that Ralph had struggled, but that it had all been in vain. He now lay as dead as a fish out of water in a dark side chapel at Westminster Palace, lit by a single flickering candle.

  ‘Come, let us return to bed. There are still some hours before the sun will be up, and I need to rest.’

  Saphira poked him in the ribs. ‘Is it really sleep that you are thinking of, William?’

  Falconer grinned like a sheepish boy caught peeping into a lady’s chamber. ‘It was, but if you have a better idea . . .’

  Saphira took his arm and led him towards their rooms. ‘Yes. I want you to tell me more about that Roman emperor, the cult of Elagabal and castration.’

  Falconer winced and reminded himself never to take Saphira Le Veske for granted.

  * * *

  Henry, for whom the earliness of the hour meant nothing, levered his aching frame out of the bed. He had feigned tiredness and sleep when Master Falconer had begun asking him probing questions. It was a ploy he often used when bored or facing awkward situations. No one dared keep the King from his bed, after all. He shuffled his now scrawny shanks to the side of the bed, regretting the disappearance of all the muscle and fat that used to shield his bones. Now it was purgatory sitting on a throne without a thick cushion under his buttocks. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he felt something sharp dig into his left hip. Lifting his leg, he slid his fingers under him, and felt around in the folds of the sweat-stained linen sheet. Pulling the offending article out, he lifted it to his rheumy eyes, recognizing it immediately. It was his seal ring that had gone missing a few days earlier. He had been afraid to tell his chamberlain about the loss. And when, on the night of the intruder, Dalyson had whispered in his ear that he might need a royal edict sealed in order to banish the man, Henry had become worried. Now it didn’t matter. The ring must have slipped off his ever-scrawnier fingers to come to rest in the folds of his bed. Relieved, he slid it back on his finger and called for his wardroper.