The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  Saphira paled at the idea. ‘And if he should die after taking my potion?’

  Falconer’s face creased in a frown. ‘You are right again, and I am a fool. I should not have subjected you to this ordeal. I was being selfish in not wishing to be away from your company for any length of time.’

  She hugged him and gave a throaty laugh, which promised much for later. But their private moment was disturbed, however, by a quiet cough. Standing in the doorway was a tall man with a regal bearing and long, well-coiffed locks. Falconer and Saphira stood up, a little embarrassed at being discovered embracing. The distinguished-looking man introduced himself.

  ‘I am Sir Thomas Dalyson, chamberlain to the King. John Zellot has told me something of the situation, and who you are. Do you have the stone with you?’

  Falconer spoke up. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then give it to me, and you can be on your way.’

  Dalyson clearly hoped that his deliberately peremptory manner would cow this Oxford master, but he was wrong. He saw the grizzle-haired man bristle at the crude dismissal, his face turning stony. ‘No. I told your envoy, Zellot, that I would present it to the King myself. If he did not pass on this stipulation, then you should punish him for his dereliction of duty. But I will see the King myself.’

  Dalyson realized how much he had misjudged the master and swiftly changed course. ‘I am sorry. I was misled by Zellot. Of course you may see the King. And Mistress—’ he racked his brain for the woman’s name, told him by Zellot ‘—Le Veske also. Come.’

  Saphira cast a fearful glance at William, but he grasped her hand firmly and picked up the stone from where it lay beside him on the bed. Together, they followed Dalyson out of the room.

  The King was struggling to breathe, and his doctors were clustered around him anxiously. The fear of wrongly prescribing a cure in such extreme circumstances made the three men nervous of suggesting anything radical. The herbalist, John Rixe, broke the impasse of their worried discussions with a bold suggestion.

  ‘I recommend a tincture of lungwort with thyme and liquorice root.’

  Master Roger Megrim hooted in derision. ‘Lungwort? That will have the effect of a fleabite in an ox’s back.’ He poked a long, bony finger at their patient. ‘Can’t you see His Majesty is far beyond lungwort?’

  The King’s face turned an ashen grey, and he began gasping for air as if he were on the verge of drowning. Brother Mark frowned deeply. He crossed himself and put on his most solemn face. ‘His Majesty is beset by demons. He must embark on a pilgrimage to Saint Madron’s Well, for he is a saint who cures all pain.’

  It was John Rixe’s turn to question the proposition from the Dominican monk. ‘And where is Saint Madron’s Well, pray?’

  ‘Cornwall.’

  The herbalist and the erudite Cambridge master both burst out laughing. It was left to Megrim, once he could contain himself, to once again point out the error of the proposal. ‘His Majesty is near to dying, and you propose to drag him hundreds of miles down roads no better than farm tracks, and across the wastes of Bodmin Moor? You will kill him for sure.’

  By now none of the three physicians was taking note of the state of their patient, intent as they were on sniping at each other. Henry’s breathing was becoming ever more wheezy, and his heart was pounding like a hammer in one of those newfangled iron workings. His vision became blurred, and the faces of his physicians swam before him in a red mist.

  Unaware of the plight of the King, Megrim finally threw his cap into the ring. With sonorous tones, he laid out the scientific approach to cure as he saw it. ‘The very latest writings of Albertus Magnus extol the virtues of magnetic stones, and lodestones are a cure for melancholy. This is what the King is suffering from – an excess of phlegm and melancholy. Powdered lodestone and milk will alleviate the symptoms of melancholy. Or he will surely die.’

  Just as he reached this conclusion, and before his colleagues and rivals could comment, the bedchamber door opened. Sir Thomas Dalyson stepped into the room and, seeing the parlous state of King Henry, rushed to his master’s side. For the first time, the three doctors noted that Henry was sinking fast. Indecision froze them in place, and they watched in consternation as the red-haired female who had followed Dalyson into the room, along with a tall, grey-haired man, took some action. She called out to the attendant she had passed in the corridor to bring some beer.

  ‘A large tankard. Now, if you please.’

  Then she turned her attentions to the King, abruptly grasping his thin and chilly hand. She patted it reassuringly while everyone else looked on in horror at her temerity. This unknown woman had touched the King. Something none of his physicians had ever done. She spoke in soft and comforting tones.

  ‘Majesty, you are just panicked by these men. Drinking deep will slow your breathing and you will feel better. I assure you. Here.’

  Ralph Wardroper entered and passed a large pewter tankard of ale to her. She helped Henry to sit up and held it to his lips. He took a sip then, encouraged by Saphira, he drank deeply in great gulps. She laughed.

  ‘Steady, Majesty.’

  He looked her in the eyes, his heart already slowing. He felt he had escaped death and grinned mischievously. ‘I should have long ago had a nursemaid as pretty as you. Instead, I have these three gargoyles.’

  Hiding a brief look of outrage, Megrim, Rixe and Brother Mark forced courteous smiles on their faces and bowed low at the King’s comment. Saphira, who could not help but note the animosity hidden by their smiles, suddenly realized that she sat on the King of England’s bed. And that she was holding his hand. Her face turned pale, and Falconer, seizing the moment, stepped forward. He helped the stricken woman rise to her feet.

  ‘Majesty, I have something you have been looking for.’

  He brought his left hand from behind his back and produced a dark stone in the shape of a ship. Henry’s eyes glittered. ‘Is this it? The sky-stone?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Falconer proffered the stone and placed it in Henry’s outstretched fingers, making sure the King didn’t drop the unusually heavy object as he took it. Henry sighed deeply.

  ‘The sacred stone.’

  Falconer turned around at the sound of the resonant voice that had spoken the words. It had not been the voice of the King. In the doorway stood a stocky, powerful man in the garb of a senior cleric of the Church. Pierre de Montbrun, Bishop of Narbonne, strode into the room. Falconer could not help but see the glitter in the dark pools that were the Frenchman’s eyes as he gazed at the sky-stone. Both Saphira and Falconer looked with renewed curiosity at the stone that now lay in King Henry’s frail hands. They had heard of its claimed healing properties, but not that the established Church should see it as sacred. Falconer’s interest was piqued, and he looked around the room. Everyone was staring at the stone, from the King down to his most lowly servant, who had brought the jug of ale. All perhaps saw something different in it, and it was something as a man of science he could not see. Hope. A cure. Deliverance.

  He nudged Saphira and tipped his head towards the others in the room. She took the hint, and with her newfound authority spoke to the King.

  ‘Majesty, I suggest you need your rest. If the others present would clear the room, I can stay to nurse you while Regent Master Falconer explains more about the stone.’

  Henry waved aside the sharp intake of breath from the doctors, the bishop and Sir Thomas, and peered at Falconer.

  ‘Falconer. I have heard of you. You stood up to that fool Thomas Bek, who was chancellor of Oxford University until recently.’

  Falconer grinned broadly and bowed his head in acknowledgement. He had indeed been at loggerheads with Bek for some time. And trying Falconer for a murder he did not commit had been an audacious step. The chancellor of Oxford University had legal authority over students and masters except solely in the case of murder. That was the King’s prerogative. Bek had attempted to extend his power and at the same time get rid of a
thorn in his side – Regent Master William Falconer. He had failed miserably and paid the price. He was no longer chancellor of the university. And it seemed that Falconer’s renown had come to the ears of the King.

  ‘With a little help—’ here he bowed to Saphira, who had aided him in finding the true perpetrator of the murder Falconer had stood accused of ‘—I solved the murder Bek had hung around my neck.’

  ‘And you have done so in several other cases, I hear.’

  Falconer was shocked the King knew so much about him. ‘I am flattered that my name has come to your attention, Majesty.’

  Henry sat up and waved a dismissive hand to the others in his bedchamber. ‘Go. I would speak with Master Falconer alone.’

  Reluctantly, those in attendance on the King turned to go, including Saphira. But the King grasped her arm with a surprisingly firm hand for one who a moment ago had been all but dying.

  ‘You can stay, too, my pretty nursemaid.’

  Saphira Le Veske blushed and averted her gaze from the envious eyes of the three physicians. She knew she could ill afford to make enemies, but she wished to remain nevertheless. Dalyson ushered the bishop out ahead of him, muttering apologies for the abruptness of Henry. The doctors followed, with Megrim taking precedence, and Ralph slipped out last, almost unnoticed.

  Falconer looked at the sky-stone, held in Henry’s clawlike grip, with renewed interest. ‘The bishop called it a sacred stone. Why so, Majesty?’

  A secretive grin broke out on the monarch’s face, and his celebrated droopy right eyelid fell even further. Falconer realized he was winking conspiratorially. ‘The Bishop of Narbonne hides a secret in his black robes and gilded cross. He thinks I do not understand how his desires are formed. But I haven’t kept my position all these years through wars and conspiracies without sniffing out the truth a little.’ He held a bony finger to the side of his nose and tapped it. Then he eased himself around uncomfortably, his bones creaking. ‘You, my pretty nursemaid, you will have heard of a Beth-el stone.’

  Saphira gasped, realizing that Henry knew her for a Jew in his reference to the pillar of Jacob. Henry chuckled at his little triumph and turned back to the regent master.

  ‘And you scholars call it a baitylos, I believe. What can you tell me about it?’

  Falconer wondered if Henry knew as much as he pretended to. To remain King for fifty-six years, he had probably perfected the art of allowing those around him to imagine he knew more than he really did. Especially about their own personal lives and dark, secret corners. It must have given him great power over them. He tacitly played along with Henry’s game.

  ‘As Your Majesty knows well, there was an ancient cult in the Levant that venerated stones. And it persisted in Roman times as the cult of Sol Invictus. The god was a sun god, and the historian Herodian wrote of it. He mentioned a huge black stone with a pointed end and round base in the shape of a cone. The Phoenicians solemnly maintain that this stone came down from Zeus. But the cult has long since died out. Christianity has seen to that.’

  Henry waved his hand impatiently as if he knew better. ‘And the name of this god?’

  Falconer frowned, looking across at Saphira in puzzlement. ‘The name, Majesty? It was Elagabal.’

  In his private chamber, the Bishop of Narbonne knelt in prayer. He often intoned this very psalm when he was frustrated. As he was today, being so close to his goal yet so far away from it.

  ‘To you I call, O Lord my Rock;

  do not turn a deaf ear to me.

  For, if you remain silent,

  I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.

  Hear my cry for mercy

  as I call to you for help,

  as I lift up my hands

  towards your Most Holy Place.

  Do not drag me away with the wicked,

  with those who do evil,

  who speak cordially with their neighbours

  but harbour malice in their hearts.

  Repay them for their deeds

  and for their evil work;

  repay them for what their hands have done

  and bring back upon them what they deserve.’

  This time, the words gave him no comfort. God was truly a rock for Pierre de Montbrun, and he had learned his holy secrets from his father in the town of which he was now the bishop. The old Roman town of Narbo still clung tenaciously to its glorious past and its rituals. Now he had at last seen the sacred stone, of which he had heard tell by passing Crusaders over the years. He had shared part of the secret with the English King, telling him in letters only of its potency as a curative. He knew that Henry was ailing and that he would seek out anything that might prolong his life. Narbonne led him to seek out the stone and arranged it so that he, the bishop, was present at Henry’s court when it was uncovered. He had not expected the old King to be so possessive, though. And the presence of the Oxford master and his Jewess complicated matters. It was obvious the King had taken a fancy to the woman, and, through her, the man and his strange interests. He would have to find a way of turning the King back to favouring him, so he could lay his hands on the stone. Perhaps the unctuous chamberlain, Dalyson, was the avenue he could use.

  Narbonne rose to his feet, brushed the dust off his robes and went in search of Sir Thomas.

  At the time, Dalyson was otherwise engaged. It was late, but the King had refused to let Falconer and Saphira go. He was too engrossed in William’s tales of the murder cases the regent master had solved in Oxford.

  ‘Tell me more of this little man who cut up bodies for you.’

  Falconer wondered how much he dare tell of Master Richard Bonham’s predilection for understanding the inner workings of the human body. Dissecting the human body was forbidden by the Church, except in the cases of convicted murderers, who had forfeited their humanity. But Bonham had carved open any body he could find, and sometimes these had been the sorry victims of murders Falconer had been investigating. But then, Bonham was now dead and could not be punished for his misdeeds. Falconer began to tell the King of an unfortunate serving girl who had been revealed as being with child when she had been killed. Suddenly, his monologue was disturbed by angry voices outside the King’s bedchamber. One of the voices was that of Sir Thomas Dalyson. Falconer was surprised at hearing him shouting, as the man had always seemed in complete control of any situation.

  The King waved a hand at Saphira. ‘Go and find out what is going on, woman.’

  Saphira rose, but, before she could reach the bedchamber door, a red-faced Dalyson stepped in the room. He bowed deeply towards the King, straightening his normally well-combed hair.

  ‘Majesty, forgive me. There was an intruder. Some persistent petitioner desiring to speak to you. I told him it was impossible, but he would not take my word for it.’

  Annoyance clouded Henry’s pale, watery eyes. ‘Who was it?’

  Dalyson ducked his head and whispered in the King’s ear to prevent Falconer or Saphira hearing. The King would have nothing of it, and told his chamberlain to speak out loud. Glancing at Falconer, Dalyson complied with the command.

  ‘Majesty, it is of no importance. He has no proper reason to see you, and I have dealt with it. Your bodyguard has removed him.’

  The King screwed up his eyes with suspicion. ‘I asked you who it was, Dalyson.’

  The chamberlain paled but stood his ground, a knowing look on his face. ‘A cousin of the de Montforts, Majesty, seeking his lands back.’

  The name he spoke had the desired effect on Henry. Not only had Simon de Montfort rebelled against the King less than ten years earlier, but more recently a couple of his offspring had slaughtered Henry’s nephew at prayer in Viterbo. Henry’s disinheriting of rebel families after the barons’ war had been criticized at the time, but the King had stood firm. He would not waver now.

  ‘Then you did well, Sir Thomas. Do not ever show the cur into my presence.’

  Dalyson smiled in satisfaction and once more bowed deeply,
then swept out of the room. The King sighed and fell back on his soft pillows.

  ‘You will have to tell me some other time about the pregnant serving girl, Master Falconer. I am tired.’

  Falconer and Saphira rose and bowed. As they left the chamber, Saphira thought how like a child the King looked, clutching the dark stone to his bosom like a comforting toy.

  It was deep in the night, but Saphira could not sleep. She had woken hours earlier, imagining she heard someone passing their bedchamber, and subdued voices whispering outside the door. She feared, as most Jews did, that the King’s hospitality could change to betrayal at any moment. To be within the walls of the King’s palace placed her in double jeopardy. Beside her, Falconer snored gently, clearly unperturbed by their situation. He was loving every minute of his observations on the workings of government. Irritated beyond measure by his serenity, she nudged him only to find that he rolled over on his side and continued snoring. She poked him vigorously with her finger. He was suddenly alert, his distant past life as a mercenary asserting itself once again.

  ‘What is it?’

  She lay back on the too-soft pillow, her red hair spilling all over it. ‘Tell me about Elagabal.’

  Falconer groaned and propped himself up on his elbow, staring at her glorious profile. ‘You have woken me up for a lesson in history?’

  She sternly refused to respond, so he continued. ‘Let me think. In ancient times the sun god Elagabal was worshipped as a black stone that was protected by an eagle. Herodian said it came down from Zeus, hence the connection with it being a meteorite. Such stones have been known by the name bethel, or baitylos. The Irish even have a word for them. Both-al.’

  ‘The Irish? Was that where our stone came from? Covele, the talisman seller, reckoned it came from far beyond Ireland. But then he might have been inflating the story to get more money from me.’

  Falconer shrugged. ‘Who knows where it came from? But the truth is I don’t imagine it was the actual stone the cult in Rome worshipped. Though some may think so. And it was a pretty nasty cult, by all accounts.’