Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

‘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.’