The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  Once dressed, he was going to show Falconer how to solve the murder without resorting to all that syllogism nonsense. But as he stood up he felt dizzy and slumped back down on the bed. He cursed the loss of the sky-stone, sure that he had felt healthier when he had held it in his hands. It occurred to him that whoever had stolen the stone might have done it to speed along his death. If Ralph had seen the thief take the stone, it would be a good motive for murdering his wardroper. Stealing the stone was tantamount to killing the King. High treason, no less. He clutched at his chest as he felt his heart race. When the new wardroper poked his head around the King’s door, he went pale at the sight of his monarch leaning heavily on the edge of his bed, a cold sweat covering his brow. He called for the King’s physicians.

  Saphira tucked her unruly red hair under a modest snood and finished her dressing. ‘So the Sol Invictus cult was a Syrian religion brought to Rome by soldiers.’

  Falconer, whose entire morning wardrobe consisted of splashing water in his face and throwing on his undershirt and sturdy black robe, sat on the edge of the bed they had shared, watching in fascination at Saphira’s preparations. ‘Er, yes. And some members of the imperial family. Heliogabalus was part Syrian. And he it was who placed Elagabal above even Jupiter, building a temple to his god.’

  Saphira’s toilet was complete, and she turned to face William. This was a new experience for them both. In Oxford, they were a little more discreet, and Falconer always returned to Aristotle’s Hall and the care of his students before daybreak. She liked their present intimacy, and wondered if she could somehow persuade him to take time away from Oxford more often. Probably not – the university and the boys were his life. She sighed, and Falconer’s face creased up into a worried frown.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  She waved aside his concerns. ‘Nothing. I was just thinking how far the cult spread, and if it survived the death of Heliogabalus. I mean, it has been a thousand years, but the bishop comes from a town that was once Roman Narbo.’

  Falconer waved an admonitory finger. ‘Now don’t you go jumping to conclusions without any evidence. I have enough trouble trying to convince the King he must stick to collecting truths, without you going out on a limb.’

  ‘You are right. Let’s go and see if we can help His Majesty solve his murder case.’ She paused. ‘It would go some way to explain the bishop’s odd behaviour, though, wouldn’t it?’

  Falconer growled and strode out of the room.

  When they once again sat with the King in his bedchamber, he was dressed. Though he looked a little pale, and his physicians were in attendance, he was eager to continue their conversation from the middle of the night. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

  But before he could continue, Master Roger Megrim stepped forward. ‘Majesty, I must protest at this unnecessary strain. You have sustained another relapse, and you should be bled again. You have a worrying excess of melancholy.’

  Henry’s pale face quivered, and he spat his words out through clenched teeth. ‘You will not take any more blood from me. I would be surprised if you found any, after all you have taken. I would prefer any treatment you wish rather than bloodletting.’

  Megrim smirked, as though he had always intended working his patient into a corner.

  ‘Then I recommend the use of the properties of magnetic stones. Pulverized magnetite and milk is a remedy against breathlessness I learned from Albertus Magnus himself. I have it already prepared.’

  He produced a small glass vial and pewter mug from his capacious pouch and unstoppered the vial. Having poured the contents into the little mug, he proffered it to the King. Grimacing, Henry tipped the mug up and swallowed the vile concoction. Satisfied, Megrim backed away from the King, then ushered his colleagues out of the room ahead of him. Henry wiped his whiskery face with the back of his hand, then spoke.

  ‘Now at last I can tell you who I think killed Ralph. You see, I spoke to my new wardroper this morning.’

  The King had felt peevish that his usual wardroper was not present to attend to him. This new one, a callow youth, had dug him in the ribs as he changed out of his sleeping gown. Now he was all thumbs as he attempted to tie the shirt ribbons across the King’s sunken chest.

  ‘Where’s Ralph?’ whined Henry, thinking to sack the lazy man who had failed to come at his call. Then it all came back to him. He remembered that the man was dead, and why he had wanted to speak to his replacement.

  ‘Tell me, boy, what is the opinion among Ralph’s fellows? Who do they think murdered him?’

  The substitute wardroper, a natural gossip, could not resist the invitation. He was inexperienced in protecting the royal personage from unpleasant facts, and he blurted out the truth as he saw it.

  ‘It is said that Ralph was dallying with Marjorie, the usher’s wife. Sir Thomas is ready to clap Godric in chains, apparently. Of course, since Ralph’s son took ill, his wife has had precious little time for him. She devoted all her efforts to caring for the boy. And though Ralph was worried, too, about his son, he resented coming second. Hence the tales of his straying away from her. They say the boy will not live, and that cannot be good for a marriage. But still, despite his son’s state, no one really liked Ralph, my lord. He gave himself airs and claimed to know many a secret of the bedchamber. So it could have been any one of many who did for him . . .’

  Suddenly, the youth remembered to whom he was speaking and paled in horror. What if the King now asked him what secrets Ralph had passed on about the King? Fortunately, Henry was too preoccupied with all this new information and dismissed his new wardroper from his mind.

  * * *

  ‘So, you see, it was Godric killed Ralph, because he was playing him for a cuckold.’

  Falconer grimaced. ‘And do you have any proof for this allegation, Majesty? Have you ascertained where Godric was the night Ralph was murdered?’

  Henry’s face darkened. He was not used to being contradicted or questioned in this way. But he contained his temper. ‘If you do not like that idea, then how about the servant who envied Ralph’s position, or the potboy who owed him money? I can bring you several possible murderers, and a little torture would be guaranteed to loosen their tongues.’

  ‘And no doubt that will result in several confessions as the pain becomes unbearable. Which one will you choose then?’

  The King flapped his bony hand disdainfully in the air, as if that were not a problem. ‘Then I would execute them all, and that way be sure of retribution falling on the true killer.’

  Falconer and Saphira exchanged worried looks. If this was the King’s way of dealing out justice, then heaven help the innocent. Falconer tried another tack. ‘Majesty, you have cleverly winkled out several possible truths here. Perhaps you could leave it to myself and Madam Le Veske to verify them, while you continue to examine the larger scheme of things.’

  Henry smiled broadly, glad to have his own superior cunning acknowledged in the presence of this Oxford master. But still he wasn’t sure how to proceed as Falconer had suggested. What other possibilities were there? He had to plunder the master’s brain without revealing his ignorance. ‘If you were me, what other people would you suspect?’

  ‘Anyone present in the palace at the time must be a suspect. Sir Thomas, Roger Megrim, John Rixe, Brother Mark . . .’

  Before he could stop her, Saphira eagerly added to Falconer’s list. ‘And Pierre, Bishop of Narbonne.’

  Henry snorted in amusement. ‘And Master William Falconer and Madam Saphira Le Veske, too.’

  Falconer nodded gravely, agreeing with the King’s assessment. ‘As Your Majesty wishes. But we can vouch for each other’s innocence, if you take my meaning.’

  For a moment Saphira felt that Henry’s eyes, boring into her soul, had taken on his legendary lynx-like stare. She blushed and looked down at her feet. When she looked up again, the look had once again faded into a clouded blue. But the King’s
quiet smile showed he knew exactly what Falconer had meant by his profession of their lack of involvement in the murder. He turned his gaze slowly on to Falconer.

  ‘I shall speak to all those you have mentioned.’

  Hastily, Falconer interposed with a bit of advice. ‘May I suggest you do it as part of your normal daily proceedings? Truths often emerge when suspects are lulled into believing they are above suspicion.’

  Henry chortled, wiping away the saliva that had dribbled from the corner of his lips and down his jutting and whiskery chin. ‘You mean to say that I should not subject any of them to torture. I wonder what would happen to our relationship with Philip of France if it emerged I had put one of his bishops on the rack. Of course, I have often thought of applying torture to my three physicians in return for all they put me through. Especially as I have often heard it said that doctors should have three qualities: to be able to lie cleverly, to seem to be honest and to be able to kill without caring.’

  Falconer refrained from saying the same qualities could be said to be the prime attributes of being a monarch. He still needed Henry’s cooperation to solve Ralph’s murder. And besides, the King had rallied in health somewhat at the thought of playing at being a deductive. A game that had taken his mind off the loss of the sky-stone, for a while at least.

  Having taken their leave of the King, Falconer’s thoughts returned to the stone. Did its theft have a part to play in the murder? Had Ralph seen someone take it, and lost his life for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? If so, who had reason to steal it? The physicians all had cause to envy the place of the sky-stone in their patient’s belief in a cure for his ills. Falconer tested the idea on Saphira. ‘Do you think one of the doctors stole the stone because they thought it replaced the trust the King may have had in their own power to cure him? Or did one of them steal it to be able to use it himself on those who believed in its powers?’

  Saphira squeezed his arm. ‘Either possibility may be the truth. But why come up with a theory about the doctors, when we have someone who is proven to have had a desire to possess the stone?’

  ‘You’re back to the bishop again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t yet been able to convince me he is not involved. And if he did steal it, and Ralph happened to see him . . .’

  Falconer reluctantly nodded his agreement. ‘Then Narbonne would have had cause to kill him. That is just what I was thinking. But what about the doctors? They have reason, too. It seems we cannot agree who to pursue first, so let us try to eliminate the servants. Let’s see if those whom the King has cast doubt on can explain where they were when Ralph was killed. And let us do it without resorting to torture.’

  * * *

  As the day progressed, Henry was getting more and more frustrated. He had followed Falconer’s advice and resolved to question his physicians without them knowing they were being interrogated as a murder suspect. First he wrapped a shawl around his shoulders, then he burrowed fully dressed under his bedclothes. He proposed to feign illness. Which was no great problem, because he soon began to feel hot and feverish, encumbered in clothing as he was. He called his physicians into his bedchamber one by one, rather than having them beside him bickering all together. Of course, he gave precedence to John Rixe the apothecary, knowing this would perturb both Brother Mark and Master Roger Megrim. When he came to speak to them, they would be worried about their position in the pecking order. Henry reckoned he could teach Master Falconer a thing or two about putting suspects on the wrong foot.

  Rixe, when he entered, looked particularly solemn. He hurried over to the King’s bedside. ‘Majesty, you look very hot and fevered today.’

  Henry put on a croaking voice, playing his part. ‘Yes, and I think I have a toothache, too.’

  John Rixe’s chubby face broke into a wide smile. He looked over his shoulder, making sure he was free of the ridicule Megrim might pour on his ancient remedies. Then he leaned close to the King, and whispered his advice. ‘You must say the words argidam, margidam, sturgidam, and then spit in the mouth of a frog and ask it to make off with your toothache. My grandam swore by this.’

  ‘Ardigam . . .?’

  ‘Argidam, margidam, sturgidam. Do you wish me to obtain a frog for you? There will be many in the margins of the river.’

  Henry looked into the innocent round eyes of John Rixe. ‘I think not, Master Rixe. I only . . .’

  But before he could continue, the apothecary was making use of this rare time alone with the King to expound on his knowledge. ‘Words are very powerful remedies. For a fever, I only have to say agodes, platino, placete into your right ear, and your recovery is guaranteed. Shall I do that, Majesty?’

  Henry held up a firm hand to stop Rixe’s eager stooping towards his ear. He was so close, Henry could see the beads of sweat on the fat man’s brow. ‘No. Stop, man.’

  Rixe reared up, startled by his patient’s peremptory, and loud, tones. Just now, the King had been weakened, and his voice had been hoarse. Now he seemed more robust. Perhaps his incantations had had the desired effect after all. He beamed cheerfully at his patient. ‘Is there anything else Your Majesty wishes to ask me?’

  Henry frowned. ‘There is, actually. This sky-stone that has gone missing. Do you think it can have any curative powers?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Majesty. I am a firm believer in the powers of stones, herbs and animals.’

  Henry poked a finger at the fat man. ‘So you might have stolen it yourself to use on others.’

  John Rixe paled, and the room swam around him dizzyingly. He could hardly get his words out. ‘Ma . . . majesty?’

  The interviews with the two other physicians went just as badly. Brother Mark, whom Henry called in next, insisted on intoning a prayer over the hot and sweating King. He fidgeted in his bed as Mark went on and on.

  ‘I adjure you, ye fevers, by the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, by Emmanuel, Sabaoth, Adonai and the Mediator, by prophet and priest, by the Trinity and the Unity, by Almighty God, King of all, by Jesus Christ and in virtue of his blood, by the purity of the angels and archangels—’

  Henry became impatient. ‘Will this take long, Brother Mark?’

  The Dominican’s voice rose and continued inexorably.

  ‘—by patriarchs, prophets, apostles, matrons, confessors and virgins, and because you have no power to hurt. For Christ was made obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’

  Henry sighed with relief. Now he could begin his real task. ‘Brother Mark, as a man of God, do you believe in the powers of the sky-stone?’

  The monk’s brow furrowed, and he began to expostulate on the Church’s attitude to graven images.

  Henry cut in. ‘So could you have stolen it to remove me from its bad influence?’

  As Henry proceeded to interrogate his physicians badly, William and Saphira had embarked on a far more gentle process of sifting through the servants. Falconer had asked Sir Thomas Dalyson to assemble those the King had mentioned, and he had agreed. In fact, he was so agreeable about the matter that Saphira wondered if he already had an inclination to believe one of them was at fault and merely wanted Falconer’s corroboration. If that was the case, he was soon to be disappointed.

  The first servant to be brought before William and Saphira was the putative cuckold Godric. A short, round man with food stains down his tunic, the usher was inclined to bluster his way out of trouble. When it was suggested to him why he had cause to have killed Ralph, he bubbled over in self-righteous indignation. ‘It is a foul slur on my wife’s honour to suggest she had anything to do with Ralph in that way. She expressed a neighbourly concern for his boy, who is dying and no one can save him. I can vouch for Marjorie’s behaviour.’

  ‘And yours, Godric, who can vouch for yours?’

  This abrupt question was from Dalyson, who had remained in the room allocated to Falconer for his enquiries.

  Falconer g
ave him a piercing look and waved the question aside. ‘That is of no consequence to me. But what is of importance—’ here, Falconer did put on a serious look, using the fear that Dalyson had already instilled in the usher ‘—what I must know is where you were the night that Ralph was killed.’

  Godric went pale but then rallied a little as his bluster returned. ‘I was in bed with my wife, of course. Where else would I have been?’

  The procession of other servants that Dalyson paraded before Falconer and Saphira proved as fruitless as the first. Two men who were said to be envious of Ralph’s position were also proven to be safely tucked up with their respective wives on the night in question. The final one to be brought by Dalyson was Tod the potboy. In conformity to his name, his nose was long and prominent, turning his features foxy, a trait emphasized by his freckled skin and ginger hair. When asked about his debts, he admitted he did owe Ralph some money.

  ‘But it weren’t a lot. Only pennies. Not enough to kill over. I was in bed, I swear.’

  Although he protested greatly, Falconer could see the sweat prickling on his brow. But then, was his interrogation any easier on the boy than the threat of torture Falconer himself disdained? Both were equally scaring in the circumstances. Saphira saw his fear too, and intervened.

  ‘Tod. It will go well if you are honest with us. The truth is your best friend, and no one—’ at this point Saphira stared hard at Sir Thomas, who still hovered in the doorway ‘—will punish you, unless you truly killed Ralph.’