Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

Ivar had watched the men prepare to pounce on Nest, but she had heard the crack of a twig and, sensing danger, had bolted. He had shouted a warning, telling her that the summer rain had turned the track treacherous, but terror had turned her deaf. She had lost her footing near the cliff and fallen, and, appalled, her dissolute pursuers had melted into the trees.

She was dying by the time he reached her. She was so lovely that he found himself wanting her as well, and, determined that such beauty should not perish, he reached for the sky-stone without thought of the consequences. Unfortunately, the men were still watching, and they had reported to Walter de Clare, who immediately launched an investigation. Unsurprisingly, no soldiers were ever brought to book for the intended rape, although Ivar and Nest were taken to the castle and questioned.

His memories were suddenly interrupted as a figure materialized in the entrance to his cave. He was angry and distressed in equal measure. Why would they not leave him alone?

‘Go away!’ he cried. ‘I do not want to see anyone.’

‘You must come with me,’ came Revelle’s breathless, gasping voice. It was a stiff climb to the cave. ‘There has been an accident, and you are needed. Hurry!’

‘No!’ declared Ivar querulously. ‘I do not want to.’

‘The victim is a child,’ pleaded Revelle, his smooth, angelic face desperate. ‘Walter’s six-year-old daughter. She fell in the river, and now she does not breathe. You must help her.’

‘I cannot,’ cried Ivar, alarmed. ‘You credit me with altogether too much power.’

‘You bring folk back from the dead,’ argued Revelle. ‘Nest said so. Please cure Eleanor — Walter is beside himself, and you are the only one who can help.’ He hesitated, then forged on. ‘He dotes on her, and her death will turn him bitter. The whole town will suffer if Eleanor dies…’

Against his better judgement, Ivar followed Revelle to the town, where a crowd had gathered. There was absolute silence, except for Walter’s broken weeping. The townsfolk might not like the constable, with his vicious ways and unruly henchmen, but everyone adored the little girl with the gap-toothed smile and dancing eyes.

Revelle pushed the hermit forward. ‘You know what you must do, Ivar Jorundsson.’

Estrighoiel, summer 1103

Sir Geoffrey Mappestone had not wanted to travel to Estrighoiel, but his wife had insisted. Geoffrey was not normally a man who could be bullied, but Hilde was a formidable lady, and they had not been married long — he was loath to turn their relationship turbulent with a confrontation. And it was not far to Estrighoiel from Goodrich, especially in summer, when the Wye Valley track was hard, dry and good for riding. He estimated it was no more than thirty miles, and it was not as if he was needed at home anyway — a lifetime of soldiering overseas meant he had scant idea how to run an estate.

A bird flapped suddenly in the undergrowth, and he reined his horse to an abrupt standstill, listening intently as his hand dropped to the broadsword he wore at his waist. It was unlikely that anyone would risk attacking a fully armed Norman knight, but Geoffrey had not survived twenty years of combat by being cavalier about inexplicable noises.

‘It is nothing,’ said his friend, Sir Roger of Durham, who rode at his side. He had also stopped, one hand on his sword and the other ready to grab the cudgel that was looped behind his saddle. ‘Just another nervous pigeon.’

Roger was an enormous man, with a head of long black curls, a bushy beard and expensive clothes that had suffered from being worn too long: they were grimy, smelly and repairs had been made with clumsy stitches. By contrast, Geoffrey, with no mean stature himself, was neater and kept his light brown hair short, in soldierly fashion.

He and Roger had little in common, including whatever the other held dear — Roger was fond of wars and money, while Geoffrey, unusually for a knight, was literate and liked books and art. Nevertheless, they had forged a friendship when they had joined the Crusade to the Holy Land years before. Geoffrey had gone because Tancred, his liege lord, had ordered him to, and because he had had a yearning to learn Hebrew and Arabic, although he had never been convinced of the wisdom of causing trouble in foreign countries. Roger had gone to loot himself a fortune and fight anyone who tried to stop him.

The two had been reunited a few weeks before, when Roger had arrived to enjoy the hunting in his friend’s woods. He was a demanding, wearisome guest, with his rough, ebullient manners and unpredictable aggression, and it crossed Geoffrey’s mind that Hilde might not have been quite so insistent that her husband travel to Estrighoiel if Roger had not been visiting.

‘Why did Hilde want us to come here?’ Roger asked as they started moving again. ‘I know you have already said, but I was more interested in the lasses in that village of yours, who came to wave us off. I did not listen to you.’

Geoffrey suspected it had been relief that had encouraged the girls from their homes to bid Roger farewell — and that they were hoping his departure was permanent. None were safe from his clumsy advances, and he was regarded as something of a menace.

‘Her uncle is a monk at Estrighoiel Priory,’ began Geoffrey obligingly. ‘And someone tried to kill him with a dagger. He wrote asking her for money, to hire a bodyguard.’

‘I can see why she was not very keen on that,’ said Roger, who hated parting with cash. ‘And your manor is hardly wealthy, anyway. She will not want to squander good gold on keeping some old man alive.’

‘Actually, she thought it would be better if we investigated why someone meant him harm in the first place,’ said Geoffrey somewhat tartly. Hilde might leave a lot to be desired in a wife, but miserliness was not one of her failings. ‘She will find the funds, if necessary.’

Roger sniffed. ‘And there was me thinking she is sensible! So that is all we must do in Estrighoiel? Find out why someone tried to murder a monk? With your sharp wits and my sharp sword, we shall have answers in no time, and you will soon be back in the marriage bed.’

He winked salaciously, and Geoffrey winced. He had not wanted to marry Hilde — she was his senior by at least five years and was more manly than most men — but it had been politically expedient to form an alliance with the locally powerful Baderon family. Moreover, Goodrich needed an heir, and the whole manor was watching intently for signs that he had done his duty. He only hoped it would not take long, because going through the necessary procedures was awkward for both of them.

‘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.