The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  Tod’s freckles stood out even more as his face turned green. ‘No. No. I wasn’t in the brewhouse.’

  ‘Then where were you on the night of Ralph’s murder?’

  Saphira’s tone of voice was low and coaxing.

  Tod hung his head. ‘I was playing at dice with some other lads. I done it before. That’s why I needed Ralph to fund me, ’cause I was losing.’ He looked up, his eyes wide and tearful. ‘I won’t tell you who the others was.’

  Saphira patted his arm. ‘That is not necessary, Tod. Now you can go. But stop gambling – it will only get you into trouble.’

  The boy nodded and shambled out of the room, avoiding looking into Dalyson’s eyes as he passed. Falconer and Saphira exchanged glances. They both tacitly agreed that the murderer still may have come from among the servants, but it now looked unlikely. Saphira leaned over towards Falconer in order to speak without Dalyson hearing.

  ‘It’s the bishop.’

  Falconer grinned. ‘Care to bet on it?’

  ‘What did I just say to Tod about gambling?’

  Later that evening, Sir Thomas Dalyson told them that the King wished to see them urgently. He also said that they were not to look shocked when they saw Henry. He was sinking fast, and only the quest for the murderer seemed to be keeping him alive. So William and Saphira were in a sombre mood when they entered the King’s chamber. Henry was already in his nightclothes and in bed, his ashen face almost the colour of the yellowish linen pillow he lay back on. But his eyes glittered. When he saw the pair, he roused himself, struggling to sit up. Saphira hurried over to his side and helped him up. She instinctively grasped his hand, as she would any invalid. Under her fingers she felt a large ring that had not been there the last time she had comforted him. He noted her reaction and smiled weakly.

  ‘That is the great seal ring of the monarch. All my documents have its impression in wax at the bottom to confirm their authenticity. Now tell me what you have found out about my servants. Who is the one I am to have executed for theft and murder?’

  Falconer grimaced and sat next to Saphira on the bedside. ‘I am afraid all of your servants who had reason to have killed Ralph claimed to have been elsewhere. Either in bed with their wives or with other servants.’

  He refrained from exposing Tod’s little gambling ring. Henry’s wan face grew a little flushed, and he shook his head impatiently. ‘But they may have been lying.’ It was not a question but a bald statement that still spoke of a desire to seek the truth with torture.

  Falconer pressed forward, trying to persuade the King to follow logic and the assembly of truths rather than those older methods of testing guilt.

  ‘Your physicians – did you find out anything about them?’

  ‘Any one of them could have stolen my stone. They have the freedom of the palace at all hours and have cause to resent the efficacy of the sky-stone.’

  He settled back on his pillow and began to tell Falconer and Saphira what he had learned from Rixe and Brother Mark. And finally from Roger Megrim, who he felt was his chief suspect.

  Henry was frustrated by the way his interviews with the apothecary and the Dominican had gone. He was determined to do better with Master Roger Megrim of Cambridge University. The man was his chief physician, and the one who would be most embarrassed by the way the sky-stone had caused him to rally. Henry resolved to try his hardest to avoid the sort of direct questions that had thrown the other two quacks into confusion. Megrim was a clever man and would be hard to bamboozle. He finally called the Cambridge master to his chamber, and, when Megrim entered, it was obvious he was perturbed by the other two having been asked to attend on the King before he did. Henry tried to set him at his ease.

  ‘I am feeling unwell still, master, and your colleagues have failed to apply a cure for what afflicts me.’

  Megrim nodded wisely, a feeling of relief and pleasure crossing his stern features. ‘Well, naturally, Majesty, they do not have the learning that seven years at Cambridge have instilled in me.’

  Henry refrained from commenting that most of that study would have been of theory, when Megrim’s head would have been stuck inside books and ancient texts. Precious little time was devoted to practical work such as a surgeon might get on the field of battle. Instead, the King smiled and asked the master his opinion on the current state of his health and what might have an effect on it.

  ‘Could the sky-stone have had any effect in truth?’

  Megrim prevaricated, not wishing to contradict the King.

  ‘That is difficult to say, Majesty. Now, if you were speaking of magnetic stones, I could state categorically that beneficial effects are proven. Aristotle himself has recorded the therapeutic benefits of natural magnets, and Galen used magnets to relieve pain. He also recommended their external use to draw out evil humours, and noted that lodestones had aphrodisiacal powers as well as being a cure for melancholy.’ He sighed. ‘But then the sky-stone is not magnetic, is it?’

  Henry looked at Falconer triumphantly. ‘You see? How could Megrim know that the sky-stone is not a magnet unless he had stolen it and tested it?’

  Falconer was not sure if the King had found out an important fact. Had he said anything about the properties of the stone in the presence of the physicians? He would have to think about that. But in the meantime he assumed the King had a point. Megrim could have been the perpetrator of the crime. Though another idea had already begun to niggle at the back of his mind, revolving around something Saphira had observed about the King. It was an idea that turned the connection of the theft of the sky-stone and the murder on its head.

  Saphira, meanwhile, was pursuing her own theories. ‘Where is the bishop? I have not seen him recently.’

  Henry chuckled, though it came out a wheezy struggle for air. ‘You still think that Narbonne is our killer? He certainly coveted the stone, and there is something of the heretic in him. He hinted to me of the connection between the Feast of the Nativity and the worship of the rising sun.’

  ‘Sol Invictus,’ murmured Falconer, looking towards Saphira. But her look of triumph was shattered by what Henry said next.

  ‘But it could not have been him who killed Ralph. He was here at my bedside when all the clamour started. And you haven’t seen him because he has gone back to France.’

  Falconer stood up and took a surprised Saphira firmly by the arm. ‘Majesty, we have two more people to see, and then we can present you with all the truths. You will then be able to work out for yourself who the murderer was.’

  The King waved a weary hand and let his eyes close. ‘Very well. Go and collect your truths. But I want this settled by the end of the day.’

  ‘Two more people? If the bishop has disappeared, who else is there to see?’

  Saphira was buzzing with curiosity. She knew William, and he rarely made such statements unless they were completely accurate. Falconer smiled enigmatically.

  ‘The bishop may no longer be in London, but there is someone who can tell us something about his actions before he left. When we went to see Ralph’s body, who did we see hurrying away?’

  ‘The bishop, of course.’

  ‘And where was he bound?’

  Saphira had to admit she had no idea, so William enlightened her.

  ‘He wasn’t going back to his quarters. He was hurrying off in the opposite direction, towards the—’

  ‘Towards the servants’ quarters. And who would have been at Ralph’s side just before the bishop, but the grieving widow.’

  Falconer nodded eagerly. ‘We didn’t see her, but it was certain she had been there. And her presence may have given the bishop an idea. If he didn’t steal the stone himself, he was so eager to possess it that he would have been pursuing the one who he thought had stolen it.’

  Ralph’s widow, Megan, was packing a small bundle with her possessions. With her husband dead, she had no further purpose in being in the palace of the King. Her reddened, round face was framed by a white cloth head veil th
at was wound under her chin. She seemed stoical, cheered only by the little boy who played happily around her feet. In reply to Falconer’s questions, she confirmed that the bishop had been to speak to her.

  ‘The French priest? Yes, he came here the morning Ralph was . . . was . . . died. But he seemed interested only in the stone.’

  ‘The stone?’

  ‘Yes. Ralph had this stone he said he had found in the outer courtyard. He insisted on little Robin playing with it, though the child showed little interest. The boy has been ill, you see. But look at him now. He is so happy. It is a shame his father could not have witnessed the change in him. So I gave the priest this stone, and he gave me some coins for it, though it was worthless. I shall need them to see me through, until I can find work. And little Robin is so hungry now.’

  William and Saphira left the widow to her packing, and the happy boy to his play. He had learned all he needed to know, hinting to Saphira that it was her action of holding the King’s hand that had clarified everything. She was puzzled, but he said it only remained for them to make his second enquiry of the court scribes before they reported back to the King. By the time they had done that, it was late, and Henry looked wan and tired. But he insisted on sitting up in his bed, and hearing Falconer out. When he had finished telling the King everything, William was sure he had enough evidence to unmask the murderer. But this was the King’s case, and he was merely the assistant.

  Uncertain, Henry fixed him with a wary eye. ‘Do I need more truths?’

  Falconer shook his head. ‘You have all you need to know. So now it may be useful to get Sir Thomas to round up your servants and physicians and bring them here.’

  ‘So do you think it was one of the servants? Or a quack?’

  Henry was trying to delve into Falconer’s mind in an effort to uncover his conclusions. But the master kept a stony face and merely smiled non-committally at his monarch. Peevishly, Henry called out for Sir Thomas Dalyson, who clearly had been hovering close to the bedchamber door all this time. He hurried off about his task, and soon the bedchamber filled with some ten servants without whom the King’s existence was clearly intolerable. Falconer marvelled how he had managed to look after himself so long, if it took this number to minister to just one man, be he King of England or not.

  The faces, whether young or old, long or broad, slim or rounded, had one feature in common. They all exuded the sweat of fear – a helpful tongue-loosener the King was going to use to his benefit. He began with a bold statement.

  ‘In this room stands the killer of my wardroper.’

  Before anyone could protest, the King pointed a bony finger at his usher, Godric. ‘You are accused of being cuckolded by the dead man. Reason aplenty to kill him. And you . . .’ his finger moved on to one of his stewards ‘—envied his position, lusting after it. You—’ again the accusing finger moved and landed on poor Tod ‘—owed him money, more than you could afford to repay.’

  One by one, he pointed out the reason why each servant present might have wished the wardroper dead, until everyone marvelled at the King’s insight into the dark secrets of those who surrounded him. But then who was the murderer? Were they all? The King came to his conclusions.

  ‘But all these reasons have long existed. Why would any of you kill Ralph now? And so precipitately? My three physicians had more urgent reason to murder Ralph, for he may have witnessed one of them taking the stone for his own purposes.’

  All three physicians blanched as all the eyes in the room turned on them. A flood of protest fell from their lips, which the King stilled with a peremptory lifting of his hand.

  ‘However, laying the murder at the feet of my quacks . . .’ Henry used the word with great pleasure, and enjoyed the pinched look of horror on Megrim’s face at being so named. He pressed on. ‘Laying the murder at the feet of my . . . physicians would depend on one of them having been the thief of the stone. And I know none of them was, because Ralph himself was the thief.’

  A gasp escaped the lips of all those in the room. This was a complete turnaround from what had been supposed. But the King was the King, and he knew best. Henry lay back on his heap of pillows and smiled at Falconer, revealing the jagged points of his worn teeth. Falconer nodded his encouragement, knowing the King had seen the trail of evidence he had carefully laid before him. Ralph had been killed not because he witnessed the theft of the stone, but because he had seen something much more serious happen in the King’s bedchamber. And he had been in the bedchamber in order to steal the stone to cure his ailing son.

  Henry’s eyes glittered, and his breath came in great gasps.

  ‘I have a syllogism. My seal ring was missing between the twelfth and fourteenth days of this month. There is on record a document dated the thirteenth, and sealed with my ring, whereby Sir Anthony Ledsham was deprived of his lands by my authority. I did not have the ring then; therefore this action was a fraud.’

  There was a confused muttering in the bedchamber, and those present glanced nervously at each other. If the King was correct, and not confused, such a misuse of the seal was treasonable.

  ‘I have another syllogism.’ The King’s voice was firmer and more penetrating than it had been for some months. ‘He who possessed my ring on that day is a thief and fraudster, who sought to gain Ledsham’s land illegally. Second, anyone who saw that ring in the thief’s possession on that day needed to be silenced. Ralph, in the process of . . . borrowing the sky-stone, saw the secretive returning of my ring while I slept. Therefore, I deduce the person who had the ring and placed it in my bedclothes so that I might think it had fallen off my finger is both a thief and a murderer. Is that not so, Sir Thomas?’

  Sir Thomas Dalyson blanched and leaped towards the door. William Falconer swiftly blocked his path, the smile of satisfaction on his face matching that of his monarch.

  Historical Note

  King Henry III of England peacefully gave up his soul to the Lord on the sixteenth day of November 1272 after a reign of fifty-six years and twenty-nine days. But not before he had seen Sir Thomas Dalyson dance on the gibbet for his treasonable misdeeds.

  Act Five

  London, 1606

  This was the worst hangover ever, no question. It was not only the sour taste in my mouth or the pulse throbbing in my head or the cast-iron sensation in my limbs. It was the way the bed kept swaying. I was lying on my back, and I feared that if I opened my eyes – something I wasn’t planning to do for a year or two – then I would see the dingy ceiling of my bedchamber in Tooley Street swooping and plunging above my head like a giant, demented bird.

  Fortunately, I had no reason to open my eyes. No reason at all since it was night-time. There was a deep blackness beyond the glow-worms flitting across my inner eyelids. I felt justified in sinking back into a fume-filled slumber with the hope that when I awoke again, after a millennium or two, I might feel more like myself, more like Nick Revill.

  Nick Revill of the King’s Men . . . a company of players whose home is the Globe Theatre . . . which is an edifice in Southwark . . . which is a borough on the South Bank of the Thames. The South Bank? The unrespectable side, I hear you say. All those brothels and bear-pits and taverns and prisons. But what I say back to you is this: despite our brothels and bear-pits, we have some famous people for friends. Take the King, for example. Yes, King James – the first of that name to rule over England (but the sixth of that name in his native Scotland) – he is our patron. And William Shakespeare, he’s one of our shareholders as well as our chief writer. He is famous, our Mr Shakespeare. You have heard of him, haven’t you . . . ?

  Rambling on like this to myself, I must have slipped back into an alcoholic stupor. I could even hear the sound of my own snoring, an odd effect. When I came to myself once more, the throbbing in my head had eased, and my limbs felt less like pieces of cast-iron. It was still the middle of the night, though. Blackness pressed against my eyelids, while the bed I lay on continued to sway gently as if I was afloat on
a sea of ale.

  And at that moment a doubt started to burrow into my clotted brain. I pinched at the material beneath my splayed hand. The fustian bedding supplied by my landlady, Mrs Ellis, might not be of the highest quality, but it was less coarse than what I now felt at my fingers’ ends. Mrs Ellis’s mattress would probably not have been good enough for the King of England (and Scotland) but it was a nest of luxury compared with what I was currently lying on.

  I sniffed the air. I was used to the smell of my bedchamber, the mouldy odour of the plaster, the faint taint of soot in the air. I could smell damp here, too, but it was a different and more bracing style of damp. There was no sootiness in the air, either. Alert now, I strained my ears but heard nothing familiar. No ringing church bells, no neighbourly cries, no sound of cartwheels rising up from my street, Tooley Street. Instead, there were ominous creaking noises and what sounded like rain gurgling down the street-kennels. A lot of rain.

  Only now did I dare to open my eyes, but slowly, as if afraid of what I was about to see. It was so dim that I sensed rather than saw a low wooden ceiling with cracks and empty knot-holes that admitted a little daylight. Only a little light but sufficient to reveal that, wherever I was, it was not my top-floor bedchamber in Tooley Street. And the explanation, which I had been holding at bay for many minutes, now flooded in on me.

  The continuous rocking motion was explained. So, too, were those creaks and gurgles. My God, how had I woken up on a boat? How, in the name of Christ, had I come to board a boat in the first place? And not one of those ferries that plies the Thames under the command of a foul-mouthed boatman, but a proper vessel equipped for the open seas! How did I know all this? I struggled to put together the fragments of the previous evening but the effort was too great.

  I shut my eyes more quickly than I’d opened them. Maybe if I kept them closed for long enough, then the whole scene would disappear. Maybe when I looked again I would be restored, body and soul, to Tooley Street. But the brain, which had been befuddled, now began to bring back the circumstances that had landed me on a seagoing vessel. A vessel called . . .? Let me see. Yes, the Argo. That was it. I could hear the man saying it. What was his name? Case, yes, Jonathan Case. I could hear Case saying, ‘My craft is the Argo. You’re an educated man, Mr Revill. You recognize the name, don’t you? The Argo. The vessel that Jason commanded in his quest for the golden fleece of antiquity.’