The Sacred Stone Read online

  ‘We will stay in an inn,’ he said, trying not to show how painful his injury was.

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Walter. ‘They are likely to be full by now, and there is plenty of room at the castle. Besides, it is the least I can do. You do understand that I would never have tackled you had you told me your name, do you not?’

  Geoffrey nodded, although he was not much comforted. It meant Walter was not averse to ambushing other innocent visitors, which hardly made Estrighoiel a place of safety.

  ‘Then we will stay at the priory,’ he said. ‘There is no need for—’

  ‘You will not be safe there,’ said Walter darkly. ‘Please, Sir Geoffrey. You will be much more comfortable with us. And you know I mean you no harm – if I had, you would be dead by now. And you are still very much alive.’

  ‘Why did you stay your hand?’ asked Geoffrey. The King would be vexed to lose the services of a retainer, but no more – Geoffrey might be useful to Henry, but Henry did not like him, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated.

  ‘Because the King told me you were a good man to call in times of trouble,’ replied Walter. ‘And this is a turbulent region. If I am to maintain my hold on Estrighoiel, then I shall need all the allies I can get.’

  ‘Your hold on Estrighoiel is insecure?’

  If that were the case, then Geoffrey was disgusted, because defending such a mighty fortress should have been child’s play. Then he looked at the constable’s shiny mail and untried sword, and understood the situation: Walter was but a shadow of his older brothers. Estrighoiel was his chance to make a mark, but it was unlikely that he would be equal to the task.

  Walter shot him a furtive glance. ‘Treachery is rife. No one can be trusted, with the exception of these four knights – Revelle, Pigot, Seine and Elias.’

  ‘Why is treachery rife?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘There will be grievances between Normans and locals – both English and Welsh – but you should be able to manage those with diplomacy.’

  ‘People will not do as they are told,’ said Walter sullenly, and Geoffrey saw he was a petty despot – that he ruled by fear.

  ‘It is not an area that responds well to force,’ Geoffrey said carefully. ‘Bribery works much better.’

  ‘Why should I yield to the demands of peasants?’ snapped Walter angrily. ‘I am above such paltry dealings. But why did you come to Estrighoiel? What did you want here?’

  It was on the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to remark that he should have asked that before trying to throw him out of the town, but he managed to suppress the instinct.

  ‘I came because my wife’s uncle wrote to say he was in fear of his life. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to help him.’

  ‘Leger,’ mused Walter. ‘Odo or one of his brethren will be responsible for Leger’s death. It is a pity – Leger was the only reasonable fellow among them and I am sorry he is dead. But the culprit will not remain free for long. He will be a monk, and lay brothers gossip.’

  ‘Your spy in the priory is a lay brother?’ asked Geoffrey, supposing that would narrow it down. There were only six of those, as opposed to ten monks and a prior.

  Walter smiled enigmatically. ‘I am not such a fool as to reveal my sources to anyone who asks. Suffice to say that nothing happens in that priory without my knowledge – and that is important, given that the wicked child-killer and devil-lover Ivar lurks there.’

  ‘A Satanist would hardly take up residence on consecrated ground,’ said Geoffrey reasonably. ‘It would cramp his style, to say the least.’

  ‘You assume the priory is holy,’ said Walter curtly. ‘But it is not. Ivar’s demonic evil has rubbed off on them, and they are all wicked now, even if they were not before. It is a pity they are not all stabbed in their church. But never mind this. Let me ask you a question: what were you hoping to learn about Leger’s death?’

  ‘Just who killed him,’ replied Geoffrey simply.

  ‘I have just told you who killed him – a monk. Any of them is strong enough, although my money is either on Odo or Aidan, on the grounds that they are the biggest and meanest. Or perhaps Ivar summoned a demon from hell to do it. And if you want to know why Leger was murdered, it will be something to do with that damned sky-stone. Ivar has hidden it and refuses to say where. My spy has done his best to find out, because I would like to get it myself.’

  ‘It seems a number of people would.’

  Walter smiled, although the expression was not a pleasant one. ‘Yes, but they intend to charge the desperate huge amounts of money for cures. I mean to destroy it, so it cannot be used to deceive anyone else. It killed my daughter, you know.’

  ‘I thought she drowned,’ said Geoffrey, then winced. His wits were not functioning properly, because he would never normally have made such a blunt remark to a man who was clearly still grieving.

  ‘She fell in the river,’ said Walter softly. ‘But Ivar could have saved her, had he wanted. She was only six. The Satan-lover killed her, and I will never believe any different.’

  When they reached the castle, Walter was immediately claimed by a clerk who declared there was urgent business for him to attend. It was left to Revelle to conduct Geoffrey and Roger to their quarters. These comprised a tiny chamber off the main staircase, little more than a cupboard built into the thickness of a wall. But it was palatial compared with some of the places in which they had been obliged to sleep, and reassuringly private.

  ‘My cousin Giffard wrote a lot about you,’ Revelle said, sitting uninvited on the bench that was the only piece of furniture, other than two straw mattresses and a tiny chest.

  ‘Did he?’ Geoffrey wished he would go. His injured arm ached, and he wanted to lie down.

  ‘He said you have helped him on several occasions, and that he considers you a friend. He was fond of Drogo, too – Estrighoiel’s previous constable. But he detests Walter. He advised me against going into his service.’

  ‘So why did you? Giffard is a wise and intelligent man.’

  ‘I wish I had listened,’ said Revelle. He glanced towards the door, then went to close it. ‘I have been asked to do things . . . Walter was never pleasant, but he has been worse since the death of his daughter. It is a pity for everyone that Eleanor died – she had a sunny, gentle disposition, and would have kept him from some of his depredations.’

  ‘What depredations?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Ordering the death of unarmed monks in churches?’

  Revelle looked pained. ‘I am not sure what happened to Leger.’

  ‘Who is the spy – the man who tells Walter the priory’s secrets?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He would be a good person to interview tomorrow.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Revelle, and Geoffrey had the feeling he was telling the truth. ‘Walter says he trusts us four knights, but there are only so many secrets he shares with us. And the identity of the spy is not one of them – Walter says it must be so, to protect the man. It is unsavoury – I have never approved of spies, personally.’

  Neither had Geoffrey, but he said nothing, and Revelle began speaking again.

  ‘Other crimes are overlooked, too. Have you heard how Nest fell over a cliff and the sky-stone brought her back to life? Well, she was being chased by soldiers from the castle who were intent on rape. Pigot was among them – it was he who told Walter how Ivar saved her. But their actions were overlooked with a wink and a nod.’

  ‘That will not make Walter popular with the townsfolk.’

  ‘He is popular with those he pays generously to spy. But others hate him. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell which is which. I plan to leave his service soon. Perhaps Giffard will find me something to do, and Winchester sounds like a nice place to live.’

  ‘He is not in Winchester at the moment – he is in the midst of a lengthy stay in Exeter.’

  ‘Then I shall go there,’ determined Revelle. ‘Soon, before I am asked to do anything else that plagues my conscience. Like arresting the hapless Marcus every other week.’

&nb
sp; ‘That is you? The priory objects to the frequency with which he is detained, and so does he. I am surprised Walter dares – the Church does not like seculars imprisoning its members.’

  ‘I know, but he is well treated, despite what he claims afterwards. He stays in this room, in fact – where Walter keeps guests, not prisoners.’

  ‘It feels like a prison to me,’ growled Roger, speaking for the first time since they had arrived in the castle. He was still angry with himself for not besting Seine at the skirmish earlier. ‘I do not like it here. I like Giffard, though, so if you are his cousin, you must be all right.’

  Revelle smiled, which made him more angel-like than ever. ‘My whole family likes Giffard, and I appreciate the fact that he takes the time to write to me. Unfortunately, Walter’s clerks are usually too busy to read his letters to me – and I like to hear them more than once. He has a nice way with words.’

  ‘Geoff can read,’ said Roger brightly. ‘I try to keep it quiet, because it is hardly something worthy of a knight, but it comes in useful sometimes. He will read them to you.’

  Smiling, Revelle pulled a bundle of missives from inside his surcoat, while Geoffrey scowled at his friend. He wanted to sleep, not squint over Giffard’s tiny writing by lamplight.

  ‘I happen to have the most recent ones here,’ Revelle said, ‘because I was going to ask Leger to interpret them for me. Unfortunately, he died before I could approach him.’

  Geoffrey forced a smile and unfolded the first one. Giffard did have a way with words, and both Revelle and Roger listened spellbound at the prelate’s accounts of journeys he had taken and people he had met. There was a reference to Geoffrey, flattering enough to make the knight blush. Then there was a description of Estrighoiel during Drogo’s rule. Giffard had been there when Drogo’s accident had occurred, and he expressed reservations about Walter’s role in the affair.

  Drogo set off to see the holy man, Giffard wrote. But he knew the land well, and it was no act of God that sent him over the precipice. Beware of your liege lord, cousin.

  ‘Drogo was going to see Ivar,’ explained Revelle, looking at Geoffrey. ‘But Walter has always claimed Giffard was mistaken – that Drogo did not know the cliffs as well as my cousin said he did. I have never been sure who to believe.’

  ‘Giffard would not lie,’ said Roger. ‘He is annoyingly honest.’

  ‘A mistaken belief is not a lie,’ Revelle pointed out. ‘Read the next one.’

  ‘It is not from Giffard,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The handwriting is different.’

  ‘Oh, that one,’ said Revelle dismissively, peering over his shoulder. ‘That is some missive he included with one letter, probably by mistake. I have never bothered to have it interpreted, because I am not interested in the ramblings of anyone else – and Walter’s clerks charge me a fortune for their services. I am loath to squander good money.’

  ‘It is addressed to Drogo,’ said Geoffrey, his interest piqued. ‘And dated five years ago.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Revelle. There was a pained expression on his face: he found the diversion tiresome and wanted to get back to Giffard’s epistles. ‘And who is it from?’

  ‘It is unsigned, but from someone who feared for his life. It is also in peculiar English, as if it was not its writer’s native tongue. Perhaps he was Welsh. It reads: The killer hunted me in darkness, and it is not long ere my light is gone. The great battle turned an already evil mind and Satan walks the earth.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Roger with a shudder. ‘That is unpleasant. I wish you had not bothered. There is a seal, too, at the bottom of the letter.’

  ‘It is not a seal,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is a shape filled with red ink. It looks like an angel.’

  ‘Not an angel,’ said Roger, frowning. ‘It is some archaic weapon. Or perhaps Satan!’

  ‘Actually, it is a boat,’ said Revelle. ‘There are a number of families in Estrighoiel who have made their fortunes from shipping – like Cadowan and Nest. Perhaps one of them has taken this symbol to represent them. Regardless, it means nothing.’

  But Geoffrey was not so sure.

  Revelle left eventually, to Geoffrey’s relief. The pain in his arm had settled down to a dull nag, and he wanted to sleep. Or should he? He did not feel safe in the castle.

  ‘I will take first watch,’ said Roger, reading his mind, ‘and wake you later.’

  Geoffrey lay down and fell into a doze immediately, having the soldier’s ability to nap anywhere and in almost any conditions. He felt better when he awoke, although his arm still throbbed unpleasantly. He supposed he should inspect it, but that would entail removing his armour, and he was reluctant to do that as long as he was in the castle. He decided to leave it until later.

  To take his mind off it, he thought about what he had learned of Leger’s death. Unfortunately, it was pitifully little. He knew there were suspects in the town, the castle and the priory, and that all blamed the others for the man’s murder. He also knew Leger had probably been killed because Ivar had trusted him with a dangerous secret. Who had Leger gone out to see immediately after Ivar had confided his tale? Was that person the killer? Could it be assumed that it was no one at the priory, because Leger had left soon after the discussion with Ivar?

  Geoffrey frowned. He could assume nothing, because the evidence was not there. He let his mind wander to Giffard, and hoped the bishop was enjoying his sojourn in Exeter. Then he thought about Ivar and his cave, and how dismal it must have been in winter, even for a man used to Greenland weather. And he thought about the sky-stone. Could it really heal? Why had it helped Nest and not Eleanor? Was it really because it would help only the living, and those who had already passed into death were out of luck?

  Bored with waiting for dawn to come, he began to count the stones in the wall, working out patterns and multiples in his mind. He noticed that one stone stood slightly proud of the others, and the longer he looked at it the more he became sure that something was odd about it. He stood, and the movement disturbed Roger, who, rubbing sleep from his eyes, rose to see what his friend was doing.

  It did not take Geoffrey long to see that the brick was loose. He tugged it out. Beyond it was a recess, in which was concealed a small box. It was beautifully made, and boasted three red chevrons, the de Clare family symbol. Geoffrey opened it. Inside was a crude wooden cross and several gold coins. Roger’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘Treasure!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who would have thought it? Give it to me. I shall put it somewhere safe, although you can keep the cross.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is evidence.’

  Roger did not look impressed. ‘Evidence for what?’

  ‘Evidence that Marcus is the spy at the monastery.’

  Roger gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’

  ‘Because he, alone of the monks at the priory, wears a gold cross around his neck – all the others wear wooden ones like this. I suspect he was given a better one to wear in its place.’

  Roger looked doubtful. ‘That is weak, Geoff. You are not thinking clearly.’

  But Geoffrey had not finished. ‘He is arrested often, but is not put in a cell. He is brought here, where guests are housed. Why, if he is a prisoner? The answer is that he is not a prisoner at all, but a guest. He provides information, and Walter provides money. But Marcus cannot take it back to the priory, where communal living would give him away.’

  ‘So he keeps it here,’ finished Roger, ‘in a special box Walter has given him. I think you had better have a word with him at first light.’

  Clouds had blown in from the west during the night, and the sky was a dark, ominous amber-grey. It was a shock after so many days of gentle sunshine. Roger regarded it uneasily.

  ‘The storm will be a bad one,’ he predicted. ‘They always are when clouds have that nasty yellow sheen. Perhaps you were right to be worried about your crops.’

  Geoffrey was eager to talk to Marcus before Walter awoke; he d
id not want the constable to know he had guessed the identity of the spy. He left the castle and walked briskly towards the priory. His arm still ached, but there was no time for such matters, because all he wanted was to identify Leger’s killer and leave Estrighoiel as quickly as possible – preferably before Walter decided Geoffrey was not the sort of ally he wanted anyway.

  There was a flicker of lightning, followed by a distant growl of thunder as he knocked on the gate, although it was a long way off. The same lay brother peered through the grille at them, but this time he opened the door and indicated that Geoffrey and Roger were to enter. They were not the only ones to visit: Cadowan and Nest had arrived before them. They nodded at the knights, although there was no warmth in the greeting, only unease.

  Dawn prayers had just finished, and the monks were filing out of the church. Some, seeing the state of the weather, headed for the dormitory to collect hoods and cloaks before the deluge, while others drifted towards the scriptorium or the kitchens. Odo had cornered Aidan and was talking to him in a low, urgent voice, while Marcus turned and shot back inside the church when he spotted Geoffrey.

  ‘Where is he going?’ asked Roger suspiciously.

  Ivar, who was passing and overheard, answered. ‘I noticed his mind was elsewhere during the Mass. I imagine he has gone to say a few more prayers, to salve his conscience.’

  ‘It needs salving for more than that,’ remarked Roger before Geoffrey could stop him. He spoke very loudly, and monks, Cadowan and Nest turned to listen. ‘He is the one who has been telling your priory’s secrets to Walter de Clare.’

  Ivar gaped at him. ‘Marcus is the spy? No! It is far more likely to have been Odo.’

  ‘Odo? Why him?’ asked Geoffrey, watching as the prior broke away from Aidan and disappeared around the side of the church. His affable monk went in the opposite direction and was soon lost to sight among the chicken coops.

  Ivar lowered his voice. ‘Because he pretends to be pleasant, but there is a black heart beneath his habit. My other suspect is Aidan, who alone of the monks likes to wander the town on his own. None of us knows what he does, and he gets testy when we ask. And the spy cannot be Marcus, anyway, because he is the one who is most vocal about the damage the spy does with his tales.’