The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘There it is!’ said Roger as they rounded a corner. ‘Estrighoiel. We have arrived.’

  The Castelle de Estrighoiel was an imposing sight. It comprised a great oblong keep set in a triangular bailey. It was built of pale stone, and its entrance, like all good Norman fortresses, was on the first floor, accessed by a removable wooden staircase. Small round-headed windows made it dark inside, but it was secure and easy to defend. It was further protected by a curtain wall topped by a gallery for archers, and its position, perched at the edge of cliffs that plunged in a sheer drop towards the River Wye, made it all but impregnable.

  Beyond the castle was the Benedictine priory. It had a large, striking church built of cream-coloured limestone, and a range of buildings in which the monks ate, slept and worked, all surrounded by a wooden palisade. The town lay between them, centred on its marketplace and the large piers at which several ships were moored. Even from a distance, Geoffrey could see it was busy: carts rolled towards the market laden with goods, and the boats were a hive of activity, as old cargoes were offloaded and new ones taken on.

  ‘It is hot today,’ remarked Roger as they left the comparative cool of the shade cast by the woods and ventured into the bright sunlight to approach the town. He wiped his face with a piece of silk that had probably once been pretty but was now stained and rather nasty. ‘This fine weather has lasted for weeks now, but it will change soon. I smell a storm coming.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong,’ said Geoffrey, squinting up at the cloudless blue sky. ‘Rain now will spoil the harvest.’

  Roger regarded him askance. ‘I cannot believe you said that! You are a trained warrior, who wears the honoured surcoat of the Jerosolimitanus – a knight who has saved his soul and had all his sins forgiven by wresting the Holy City from Saracens. And now you sound like a farmer!’

  ‘You will be the first to complain if the crops are destroyed and there is no flour for bread.’

  Roger was saved from having to think of a rejoinder, because they had entered the town. People stopped to stare at them as they passed, and Geoffrey wondered whether they should have travelled more anonymously – they wore the half armour and surcoats that marked them as knights. He had not given the matter much thought when they had left the previous morning – he had just donned what he normally wore when travelling outside his estates.

  ‘The landlord of the inn where we stayed last night told me that the Castelle de Estrighoiel is held by the King,’ said Roger conversationally as they rode along the main street.

  Geoffrey groaned. ‘Is it? I thought it was built by one of his barons.’

  ‘It was – William fitz Osbern. But he died in battle thirty years ago, and his son was rash enough to indulge in rebellion. The first King William confiscated all his possessions, and the second King William liked them enough to keep hold of them. Then his heir, King Henry, who is a greedy rogue—’

  ‘Not so loud,’ murmured Geoffrey, aware that people were listening. It was not a good idea to bawl treasonous remarks in a place where they were strangers, and, not for the first time, he wished Roger were imbued with a little more tact – and sense.

  Roger lowered his voice obligingly. ‘Well, King Henry, being a man fond of property, keeps Estrighoiel still. Having seen it, I understand why. It is a good fortress – strong and large.’

  ‘Your garrulous landlord did not tell you whether the King is here, did he?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily. ‘Because if he is, we are turning around right now.’

  Roger laughed. ‘I have no love for the sly villain myself, but I am not frightened of him.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Geoffrey stiffly. ‘But every time we meet, he uses unscrupulous means to make me do him favours. And as he is never honest about the commissions, they invariably prove to be dangerous or unsavoury. I do not want to meet him, lest he orders me to do something else against my better judgement – or my conscience.’

  ‘It is better not to have a conscience where he is concerned, Geoff lad. But you need not worry. I believe he is in Westminster, plotting spiteful vengeance on those who cross him.’

  Geoffrey was relieved: he did not want to be embroiled in any more of the King’s dark business. He was about to say so when he became aware of a rumpus taking place in the market ahead of them. It involved two warriors, a pair of monks and a couple from the town. Their disagreement had gathered quite a crowd, although Geoffrey noticed that the onlookers’ curiosity seemed more perturbed than nosy.

  ‘There is an atmosphere in this place,’ remarked Roger. ‘As if everyone is frightened.’

  Geoffrey agreed, and imagined it must be powerful, if Roger had noticed it. The big knight was not noted for his sensitivity. The people were cowed and uneasy, and even the children playing in the street seemed restrained.

  ‘He did cure her,’ one man was declaring. He was a short, red-faced individual with the kind of accent that said his first language was Welsh. His rich clothes indicated he was a merchant. The woman of whom he was speaking was beautiful, with black hair falling in a shimmering sheet to her waist. ‘Nest was set to die, and he made her well again.’

  ‘My husband speaks the truth,’ said Nest. ‘I would not be here today were it not for Ivar.’

  ‘Ivar is sinister,’ declared one of the soldiers. Like Geoffrey and Roger, he was a knight, and he wore his weapons and mail with the easy confidence of a man comfortable with them. He was large, black-haired, and his face was marred by a dark scowl.

  ‘Pigot is right: Ivar is sinister,’ agreed the other knight. He had golden hair, and his face looked far too gentle to belong to a warrior. ‘And Sir Walter says we should not have him within the confines of our town. It was better when he lived in his cave.’

  ‘Our prior does not agree, Revelle,’ said one of the monks. He was a bulky, affable-looking man with twinkling eyes and a wooden cross displayed prominently against the dark wool of his habit. ‘Ivar has been in our fold for two years now and has been no trouble at all.’

  Revelle grimaced. ‘You often say the town has changed for the worse in the last two years, Brother Aidan. Well, two years ago was when Ivar came down from the hills and took up residence in your priory.’

  ‘And we want him gone,’ added Pigot in a growl.

  ‘It corresponds to the time you arrived, too,’ Aidan shot back. ‘You, Pigot and Walter de Clare, all conveniently to hand so soon after poor Drogo’s death.’

  Geoffrey had heard of the de Clare family. They had been present when King William II had been killed in the New Forest, and there were rumours that they had arranged it, so Henry could accede to the throne. Geoffrey had no idea whether the tales were true, but he was certainly aware that the powerful de Clares were not a clan to cross.

  ‘Drogo was murdered,’ said the merchant. ‘He knew this area well and was not likely to ride over a cliff, as has been claimed.’

  ‘And why was he by the cliff? Because he was visiting Ivar!’ retorted Revelle. The promptness of his reply made Geoffrey suspect that it was a debate that had been aired many times before. ‘But he never returned. And you wonder why Walter is wary of Ivar?’

  ‘Ivar had nothing to do with Drogo’s death,’ said Aidan firmly. ‘And he is one of us now – a Benedictine and a holy man. He is above reproach.’

  ‘Are you saying Benedictines are above reproach, Brother Aidan?’ asked Revelle archly. ‘After all the unsavoury dealings we uncovered in your priory?’

  ‘They were not unsavoury dealings,’ said the other monk hotly, stepping forward. He was roughly Geoffrey’s age – mid-thirties – and looked as if he should have been a warrior, not a monk. Unlike Aidan, his cross was gold, rather than wood. ‘They were all lies – fabricated by villains in a transparent attempt to discredit us.’

  ‘These tales came from a reputable source, Brother Marcus,’ said Revelle. ‘And there was evidence to prove that the sacristan has misappropriated the funds in his care, that Prior Odo does drink too much and that the cellarer
did entertain women in his quarters.’

  ‘So your spy claims,’ spat Marcus in distaste. ‘Some villain who runs to Walter with tales in return for money.’

  ‘A lot of money,’ agreed Pigot with a gloating smile. ‘He does not come cheap. But then, his intelligence is worth the expense. And you still have no idea who he might be!’

  ‘I do not know whether the stories from the priory are true, but the ones pertaining to Ivar are lies,’ declared Nest. ‘He would never do the things he was accused of. He is a saint.’

  ‘He is a grubby vagrant,’ countered Revelle, ‘with a reason to be frightened by the charges of witchcraft we tried to bring against him. He did kill poor little Eleanor, because there were witnesses – myself among them.’

  ‘He did not kill her,’ said Aidan tiredly, putting out a warning hand as Marcus started to surge forward angrily. ‘He tried to save her when she was dragged from the river, but she was beyond his skills. No one, other than you at the castle, blames him for that.’

  ‘He does not cast spells and conjure up Satan, either,’ declared Marcus, clearly furious. ‘I confess I find Ivar difficult, but we shall stand by him against all lies spread by seculars.’

  Revelle shrugged. ‘He will show his true colours one day, and then you will be sorry you did not listen to our warnings. The devil will come and drag him down to hell – and will take every single one of you with him. You are a fool to keep protecting him.’

  ‘You are the fool,’ muttered Marcus under his breath.

  ‘God’s blood!’ muttered Roger at Geoffrey’s side. ‘Quarrelsome villagers, argumentative knights and hot-tongued monks whose comrades cast spells to summon the devil! What sort of place is Estrighoiel?’

  Geoffrey led the way towards the priory, supposing he had better make himself known to Hilde’s uncle as soon as possible. He dismounted by a wooden gate and knocked. A metal grille set in the door flew open, and he could see a pair of unfriendly eyes on the other side. The fellow’s robes indicated he was a lay brother.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded. ‘You cannot come in, whatever it is. We are busy.’

  Geoffrey was taken aback. Monasteries were usually hospitable to travellers, especially ones whose surcoats said they had been to the Holy Land. But then, the confrontation in the market suggested something odd was happening in the town, so he supposed he should not be surprised.

  ‘We have come to visit Brother Leger. He is uncle to my wife.’

  ‘He is? Oh, Christ!’

  The grille was slammed closed, leaving Geoffrey staring at it in astonishment. Roger’s expression hardened.

  ‘That was plain rude. Shall we break down the door and teach them a lesson? Hilde said there are only twelve monks here, and I doubt they have more than six lay brothers. Few will be armed, and we could take the place easily. And if they harbour Satan-worshippers, then the town and the castle will not object.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, seeing his friend was perfectly serious. ‘We are not in the business of sacking monasteries.’

  ‘We did it in Antioch,’ Roger pointed out. ‘On the Crusade.’

  ‘That was different. We are here to help Hilde’s uncle, not besiege his home.’

  Roger grimaced, then wiped his face again with his filthy piece of silk. ‘We should not have worn armour today – it is far too hot. I am being roasted alive.’

  ‘Wait for me in a tavern,’ suggested Geoffrey, suspecting gaining access to Leger might take some time and loath to have Roger complaining while he persuaded the brothers that he was not there to accuse them of drunkenness, dishonesty or failing to save children from drowning. ‘I will join you there later.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Roger. ‘But fetch me if there is any fighting. I will not be pleased to hear you have enjoyed yourself without me.’

  Geoffrey was relieved when Roger disappeared into a large, neat tavern with a sign outside indicating it was the White Lion. He was about to knock on the priory gate again when the grille snapped open and a different pair of eyes inspected him. This time, they belonged to a monk with white hair, the kind of nose that said he liked a drink, and a large wooden cross around his neck, like the one Aidan wore.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded haughtily. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am here to visit Leger,’ replied Geoffrey patiently. ‘He sent word to his niece, Hilde, that he might be in trouble.’

  ‘That is one way of putting it,’ muttered the monk. ‘He is dead.’

  * * *

  It was not easy persuading the Benedictine to open the door so that the conversation did not have to take place in a busy thoroughfare. Geoffrey did not like the fact that people were stopping to listen, and if it had not been for his promise to Hilde he might have turned around and gone home.

  ‘It might be better if we had this discussion inside,’ he said to the monk. ‘A crowd is gathering, and I understand you are already the subject of rumours—’

  ‘All lies, put about by the evil Walter,’ declared the monk. But he, too, was eyeing the spectators. Some were muttering that Leger’s demise was because the monks harboured a Satanist, while others claimed Walter had arranged the death. A few discussions were growing rancorous. Then the door opened, and a beckoning finger indicated that Geoffrey was to step through it.

  ‘I am Prior Odo,’ said the red-nosed monk. ‘I am sorry to give you the bad news. Poor Leger died last night, I am afraid.’

  ‘How?’ asked the knight. ‘My wife told me he is not yet fifty, so it cannot—’

  ‘It is an internal matter,’ said Odo stiffly. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you.’

  ‘Hilde will want to know what happened,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘So you can either tell me, or you can tell her – because she will descend on you herself if she is not satisfied with my answers. If you have ever met her, you will know I am right.’

  Odo gulped. ‘I have met her, and there is nothing I would like more than to furnish you with the information that will keep her away. But I cannot, because I have no idea what happened.’

  ‘Then tell me what you do know.’

  ‘A few days ago, Leger said someone was trying to kill him, and grew very agitated – he wrote to your wife, begging for help. He claimed there was poison in his food, and the cat did refuse to eat it when offered, but it is a fussy creature and may not have been hungry.’

  ‘He told Hilde someone threw a knife at him.’

  ‘He told me that, too. But we live a very secluded life here. We have no enemies.’

  ‘Are you saying he died of natural causes, then? Or that he killed himself?’

  Odo crossed himself. ‘He was stabbed in the back, which is decidedly unnatural.’

  ‘It is not easy to do if you are trying to commit suicide, either,’ remarked Geoffrey. ‘And that leaves murder, which means he had at least one enemy and that he was perfectly justified in being afraid for his life.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Odo reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I should have heeded his concerns.’

  Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘After two attempts on his life? Yes, you should!’

  Odo looked sheepish. ‘Would you like to see his body? You are obviously a soldier, so you will be familiar with wounds. Perhaps it might tell you something.’

  Inspecting corpses was not a way Geoffrey would have chosen to spend a summer afternoon, but he followed Odo across a cobbled yard to the church. It was a beautiful building, with one of the finest carved doors he had ever seen. He stopped to admire it, but the prior was disinclined to spend time on pleasantries and indicated impatiently that he was to enter.

  The building was blessedly cool after the heat outside. It was also dark, and Geoffrey tripped over several uneven flagstones as he followed Odo to one of the transepts. Leger, dressed in a clean habit and with his hands folded over his chest, lay in a plain wooden coffin. It was a kindly face, browned by the sun, and Geoffrey had the immediate impression that he probably wo
uld have liked him. The insight surprised him, because he did not care for many members of Hilde’s large and bellicose family.

  ‘This is where he was stabbed,’ said Odo, hauling the body into a sitting position and sliding the robe down its back so Geoffrey could see.

  It was not a large wound, although a faint bruising around it suggested it had been delivered with considerable force. Geoffrey peered at it in the gloom and imagined it went very deep. He had no doubt at all that it would have killed Leger all but instantly.

  ‘Where did he die?’ he asked, watching the prior lay the corpse back down again. ‘You said it was last night. Was he asleep?’

  ‘He refused to come to the dormitory with the rest of us – said he would be safer here.’

  ‘He was dispatched in a church?’ Geoffrey was shocked. He was not particularly devout, but the notion of committing murder on consecrated ground was anathema, even to him.

  Odo nodded. ‘As he knelt to pray in this very lady chapel. The rest of us retired to bed after compline, and we found him dead at matins. Ergo, he was struck down during the night.’

  ‘He sounded terrified in his letter, so I am sure you would not have left him here alone while you went to sleep,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Who was with him?’

  Odo looked sheepish. ‘No one.’ He became defensive when he saw the knight’s disapproval. ‘He said he would be safe in here. We tried to persuade him to come with us to the dormitory, but he refused. In the end we gave up – we are busy men and need our sleep.’

  ‘Then who was in the priory, other than you and your monks?’

  ‘No one – the lay brothers go home at dusk. We lock the gate behind them and do not open it to anyone until the following morning. No one can come in or go out.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘So one of your monks killed him.’

  ‘No! They are all as shocked by this as I am.’

  ‘Leger’s wound was not self-inflicted,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and clearly it was no accident. That leaves two possibilities: he was killed by a monk, or he was killed by an intruder. You say no one can come in or out . . .’