The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  The Sacred

  Stone

  Also by The Medieval Murderers

  The Tainted Relic

  Sword of Shame

  House of Shadows

  The Lost Prophecies

  King Arthur’s Bones

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2010

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © The Medieval Murderers, 2010

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of The Medieval Murderers to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978–1–84737–676–3

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978–1–84737–677–0

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-018-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  The Medieval

  Murderers

  A small group of historical mystery writers, all members of the Crime Writers’ Association, who promote their work by giving informal talks and discussions at libraries, bookshops and literary festivals.

  Bernard Knight is a former Home Office pathologist and professor of forensic medicine who has been publishing novels, non-fiction, radio and television drama and documentaries for more than forty years. He currently writes the highly regarded Crowner John series of historical mysteries, based on the first coroner for Devon in the twelfth century; the fourteenth of which, A Plague of Heretics, has recently been published by Simon & Schuster.

  Ian Morson is the author of an acclaimed series of historical mysteries featuring the thirteenth-century Oxford-based detective, William Falconer, and a brand-new series featuring Venetian crime solver, Nick Zuliani.

  Philip Gooden is the author of the Nick Revill series, a sequence of historical mysteries set in Elizabeth and Jacobean London, during the time of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. The latest titles are Sleep of Death and Death of Kings. He also writes 19th century mysteries, most recently The Durham Disappearance, as well as non-fiction books on language. Philip was chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association in 2007–8.

  Susanna Gregory is the author of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mystery novels, set in fourteenth-century Cambridge, the most recent of which are Killer of Pilgrims and A Vein of Deceit. In addition, she writes a series set in Restoration London, featuring the spy Thomas Chaloner. The most recent book in this series is A Murder on London Bridge.

  Simon Beaufort is a pseudonym for a pair of academics formerly at the University of Cambridge, both now full-time writers. One is an award-winning historian, the other a successful crime-writer. The most recent of their novels featuring the former crusader knight Geoffrey Mappestone is Deadly Inheritance.

  Karen Maitland is the author of Company of Liars, a dark mystery thriller set in 1348, in which a group of misfits flee across England to escape the plague, and most recently, The Owl Killers, set in Norfolk 1321, about a village terrorised by the sinister cult of the Owl Masters, and the women determined to defeat them.

  The Medieval Murderers would like to dedicate this book to Kate Lyall Grant, our commissioning editor and publisher at Simon & Schuster, who has now shepherded six books to publication, with unfailing courtesy, encouragement and expertise.

  The Programme

  Prologue – In which the stone is discovered by a band of hunters.

  Act One – In which the stone causes a rift between Church and State.

  Act Two – In which the stone is invoked to heal a manor lord’s sick wife.

  Act Three – In which the stone is acquired by a Jewish merchant.

  Act Four – In which the stone finds its way to King Henry’s bedchamber.

  Act Five – In which the stone plays a part in the kidnap of Nick Revill.

  Epilogue – In which the stone resurfaces.

  Prologue

  Brattahli∂, Greenland, 1067

  The sound of howling wolves woke Jorund. It was the darkest part of the night, and bitterly cold, so he did not want to leave the house to investigate, but he knew he must. The village had experienced more than its share of bad luck during the past two years, and its inhabitants could not afford to lose any more sheep.

  ‘It is only the wind,’ murmured his wife Sigrid drowsily, feeling him stir. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  The wolves howled again, a mournful symphony in the otherwise silent night. ‘Then the wind is hungry for our animals,’ he said, speaking quietly so as not to wake the children. ‘And I must protect them, or Brand will use the opportunity to make another of his speeches. I do not want to leave Brattahli∂, and sail away to find some other place in which to settle.’

  Sigrid sat up, pulling the bed-furs around her as she did. Despite its thick turf roof and walls, the little house was always freezing at night.

  ‘So you always say, but why not? Since your father drowned two years ago, we have known nothing but misfortune – healthy animals have sickened and died, our crops have failed, little Ivar’s crooked leg fails to mend. If Qasapi had not brought us gifts of seal meat, we would have starved this winter. Perhaps we should abandon this place and go home.’

  ‘But this is our home,’ insisted Jorund. ‘We were born here, and our fathers were born here. There is no other place we can call our own.’

  ‘Brand says we could go to Engla lande. He heard from the traders last year that there are fields simply for the taking – we just arrive, choose a good spot and build a farm. The weather is mild, the soil is fertile and the sun shines all year long.’

  ‘Brand is a dreamer,’ said Jorund harshly. ‘We cannot arrive in some distant country and start claiming great swaths of territory for ourselves – the people already there would object, and we would never know peace again.’

  ‘Are you afraid to fight?’ jeered Sigrid, irritated by the reoccurrence of what had become a frequent disagreement. ‘You, a descendant of Erik the Red, who settled in this godforsaken spot almost ninety years ago? His blood does not run in your veins, or you would be willing to draw your sword to make a better life for the people you vowed to protect.’

  Jorund fought down the anger that surged inside him. He sat on the bed and took her hand. ‘I did vow to protect them, and I shall. But not all battles are fought with steel, and I will not drag our people away from their homes just because Brand is restless for adventure. Summer will be here soon – perhaps our luck will change then.’

  ‘Or perhaps it will get worse. I think Brand is right: we should go.’

  ‘No,’ said Jorund firmly, pulling his hand away and standing abruptly. ‘I am the leader of this village, and I say we are staying. You will see in time that I am right.’

  He headed for the door, bringing an end to the discussion. Two years before, no one had listened to Brand and his wild dreams, but Sigrid was right: since Thorkell had fallen through the ice and drowned, things had started to go wrong in Brattahli∂. Cleverly, Brand was using the problems to confirm his whispering campaign that the settlement was doomed, and many of the village’s hundred or so members were beginning to believ
e him. Unfortunately, those most keen to go were the young, strong men, without whom the village could not manage. Jorund had no choice but to force them to stay.

  He sighed unhappily as he fumbled for his boots in the darkness. His father had warned him that this might happen: theirs was a restless race, with a drive to conquer new lands and sail across new seas. They were not farmers, content to eke out a paltry living among scrawny cattle and soil-starved vegetables. Thorkell had told his son that it would not be easy to keep Brattahli∂ at peace with itself, and he had been right. Jorund could feel control slipping away from him with every day that passed.

  He tugged open the door and stepped outside, cursing when a blast of icy wind almost knocked him from his feet. He looked around, trying to gauge which of the various pens might have attracted the wolves’ attention.

  Brattahli∂ was not a large settlement. It stood at the head of a fjord, and comprised a tiny chapel – his great, great grandmother had converted to Christianity, and the place was still called Thjodhild’s Church, even though she was many years in her grave – and a few houses clustered around it. Sheep, goats and chickens were kept in a range of sheds and outbuildings.

  Jorund pulled his cloak more closely around him and began to walk towards the nearest pen. Then the wolves howled again, and he was both annoyed and relieved when he realized they were not close at all – as often happened in the great silence of the Arctic, the wind had carried the sound many miles.

  ‘Something is bothering them,’ came a voice at his elbow. He smiled. It was Leif, his eldest son, already tall for his nine years and showing the kind of qualities that would make him a good leader one day. ‘They do not usually bay at nothing.’

  ‘It is not nothing,’ Jorund said, pointing to the sky. It was a clear night, with millions of stars blasted across a vast, velvety blackness. But there was something else, too – the strange, shimmering light that appeared sometimes in the spring months. It hovered like a great green scimitar, shivering and undulating. ‘Perhaps God has not forsaken us after all.’

  But Leif jabbed his finger towards the east. ‘There! Do you see it? Gold in the sky!’

  The wind was making Jorund’s eyes water, and at first he could not see what Leif had spotted. But then he saw it – a shower of stars that burned brightly, then winked into nothing.

  ‘Treasure!’ breathed Leif, gripping his father’s arm in excitement. ‘God is sending us gold, because He is sorry for all the troubles He has sent us. We will be able to buy anything we want from the traders when they come in the summer, and then it will not matter whether the crops fail and our old animals die. We will stay here and be happy.’

  ‘Perhaps we had better go and look for it tomorrow, then,’ said Jorund with an indulgent smile. ‘And check the fox traps at the same time.’

  Leif grinned in pure pleasure, but then his happy expression faded. ‘I cannot. I promised Ivar I would carve him a wooden boat. His leg has been paining him more recently because of the cold.’

  Jorund sighed. Ivar had been born seven years before, making his entry into the world at the exact moment that the sun had returned after its winter absence, which the villagers had deemed to be a good omen. But poor Ivar was a frail, sickly child with a twisted leg. Brand often claimed that Ivar’s poor health was another sign that they should abandon Brattahli∂ and head for more ameliorative climes, but Brand was shameless in using any tragedy, no matter how sensitive, to make his point.

  ‘We shall take Ivar with us,’ said Jorund, patting Leif’s shoulder. ‘We will put him in a sling on my back and collect this gold together. And if we cannot find any, then perhaps we shall come home with a few fox pelts instead.’

  White bears were particularly dangerous in the spring, because they were hungry, especially if they had cubs to feed. Two men had been killed by a female the previous year, and Jorund had no intention of sharing their fate. He carried a sturdy sword that had belonged to his father, and asked his friend Qasapi, from the nearby Skraeling settlement, to accompany him – Skraeling was the Old Norse word that the villagers used to describe the local people they encountered. Qasapi, who claimed his people had lived in Greenland since the beginning of time, was a superb hunter, and Jorund was certain no bear would ever catch him unawares. Moreover, Jorund needed to repay him for the seals he had given the village during the winter – they would share any furs they collected that day.

  Jorund took Brand and his brother Aron on the expedition, too – not because he wanted their company, but because he did not dare leave Brand behind to spread more discontent.

  ‘Did you see the lights last night?’ Qasapi asked as they began to climb towards the hills. Leif was skipping ahead, full of energy and excitement; Ivar was a silent weight on Jorund’s back; and Brand and Aron were a resentful presence bringing up the rear.

  Jorund nodded. ‘They have been brighter this year. Perhaps it is a sign that our luck may be about to change. God knows, we need it.’

  ‘No, not the green lights – the falling stars. Did you see the falling stars?’

  ‘It is gold from heaven,’ called Leif with great conviction, bending down to poke at a frozen stream with his knife. ‘It will make us rich.’

  ‘Rich?’ asked Qasapi, laughing. ‘How? Will it bring herds of seals and walrus for us to eat?’

  ‘It might,’ said Leif archly. ‘And then we shall stay here for ever.’

  ‘It will be your death if you do,’ said Brand bleakly. He was a powerful man with a thatch of yellow hair and fierce black eyes. ‘Brattahli∂ will be our tomb if we do not leave this year.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Jorund wearily. ‘It is a glorious day – the first clear one we have seen in weeks. Can you not enjoy it, and forget these dreams of yours? Just for a few hours?’

  ‘I talk to the traders when they come to buy our furs,’ said Brand angrily. ‘They all say the same thing: that everyone in this region is struggling to survive. Foxes and wolves are getting harder to catch, our own animals are dying, the weather is turning too harsh to grow our crops. It is time to leave this icy wilderness to the Skraeling, who know no better, and sail for Engla lande.’

  ‘Watch what you say,’ snapped Jorund, glancing uneasily at Qasapi. They could not afford to offend such a generous neighbour. ‘And if Engla lande is such a wonderful place, then why have the traders not settled there? The seas around Greenland are dangerous, so why risk themselves to barter for furs when they could be farming in paradise?’

  ‘Not everyone is suited to agriculture,’ retorted Brand. ‘Just as not everyone is able to fight.’

  Jorund ignored him, knowing perfectly well what he was trying to do. Brand itched to solve the dispute between them with his sword, and he had invited Jorund to win his point by combat on several occasions. Jorund had declined. Brand muttered that this was cowardice, and perhaps it was – he would be a formidable opponent. But it was not just his own life Jorund was afraid of losing, but that of every man, woman and child in Brattahli∂, because he knew, with all his heart, that everyone would die if Brand won the contest and led them out across the open seas.

  ‘The gold fell around here,’ announced Leif, his chirruping voice breaking into the tense silence that followed Brand’s remarks. ‘Shall we look for it first or check the traps?’

  ‘The traps,’ replied Jorund, smiling at him. ‘But we can watch for gold as we go.’

  The first three traps – the best ones – were empty, and Jorund saw Brand nodding meaningfully at his brother as they bent to inspect them. Worse, one was smashed, and blood indicated that a fox had ventured inside, but something else – a wolf or a bear – had been quick to take advantage. Wearily, Jorund gathered the pieces so they could be carried home and mended. He was acutely aware that the traders would expect at least fifty pelts when they arrived in the summer, to make the journey worth their while, and so far he had only eight.

  ‘The land hates us,’ muttered Brand. ‘It is telling us to go.’


  ‘Look!’ cried Leif suddenly, jumping to his feet and waving something in the air before Jorund could respond to Brand. ‘Look what I have found!’

  ‘Is it gold?’ asked Qasapi, amused by the boy’s eagerness to acquire what seemed to him to be a useless metal. ‘To bribe the seals and reindeer to give themselves to us?’

  ‘It is a special stone,’ declared Leif, running towards him. ‘It is in the shape of a boat!’

  He held it out to Qasapi, and the others clustered around to see. The object was about the size of his hand, roughly cruciform, with two longer arms that were straight along one edge and curved along the other. One of the shorter arms was rectangular, while the other was rounded.

  ‘It is a boat,’ declared Brand. ‘Here is the keel, and this square part is the sail. It is a sign that we should load the whole village in one and—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Qasapi. ‘It is a bird. The square part is not a sail, but a tail, and the rounded part forms its head. The two longer arms are wings.’

  Jorund frowned: it did look like a bird, but he could see why Brand had thought it was a boat. He took it from his son’s hand and was surprised by its weight – it felt as though it was made of lead. He took his knife from its scabbard, to scratch it, and was startled when the blade was drawn to the stone’s surface, where it stuck. He pulled it away, then let it stick again. When the two surfaces met, they made a light ringing sound.

  ‘It is iron,’ he said. ‘But like no iron that I have ever seen. It is blacker and smoother.’

  ‘I have heard of rocks falling from the sky in the north,’ said Qasapi. ‘Although they are as big as your church. They are also made of metal, and my people chip pieces from them to use as knives and harpoon heads. We call them sky-stones.’

  Leif looked acutely disappointed. ‘I thought it was going to be gold.’

  ‘They glow like gold when they fall,’ explained Qasapi. ‘But they go black or grey when they hit the ground.’