‘Your Majesty?’
He feigned lack of knowledge of the matter to which Henry referred, when in reality he knew exactly what he meant. The King hobbled over to his chamberlain, leaning heavily on the stick he now needed to get about. He was sixty-five, but the years had not been kind to him. No longer robust, he surrounded himself with doctors and other quacks, who gave pronouncements on his every bowel movement. Which was not saying a great deal, as Henry, King of England, was constipated. He screwed up his face, and Sir Thomas was not sure whether it was in anger at being crossed or from trapped wind.
‘The stone, damn you. The stone.’
‘Sire, if I can draw you back to the matter in hand. We must pass judgement on these townspeople. They must be punished.’
Henry shook his head in frustration. It was true. He had journeyed all the way to Norwich because the mob had broken into the town’s priory and burned the church to the ground. What the cause of the riot had been now seemed to be unclear in most people’s minds, but the result had been unequivocal. Property had been destroyed and precious gold items stolen. The townsfolk of Norwich had to pay the price, and Henry would make sure they did. But he had not been in the town long when he had heard tales of a strange stone. Though its reputation for attracting evil had been revived by the lightning strike on the church, he had been drawn to it by the assertion that it could cure all ills. The information fitted well with other hints he had received from abroad about a magic sky- stone. The problem was, he had been here two weeks already, and he couldn’t find the stone. He was tired of the whole business.
‘That bolt of lightning foretold the truth, then. Evil in the form of a riot has followed in its footsteps. Who do we have in gaol right now?’
Dalyson fumbled among the papers that lay piled on his desk and extracted the relevant list. He made a quick calculation.
‘Thirty-four men and one woman, sire. They came to plead their case and were held at your pleasure.’
‘Then hang them all, and burn some, too. They will be the example for the others. You can extract monies from the rest to pay for their crime.’
Dalyson nodded and picked up his quill pen to note down the King’s justice. But the King had not finished. Twisting the seal ring that adorned the finger of his right hand, he piped up petulantly.
‘And find me the stone.’
Covele was furious. He had recently returned to Norwich in his usual guise of a travelling German Jew, with a pileum cornutum — a spiked straw hat — on his head, only to find that everyone was looking for the sky-stone. He had sold it to that red-headed woman in Oxford, knowing her lover was fond of curiosities. And he had made a tidy profit on it, too, bearing in mind it had then seemed worthless. Now it was said the King himself desired it. His luck seemed to have been cursed ever since crossing paths with Saphira Le Veske and William Falconer. For it now looked as though he needed to turn right around and walk all the way back to Oxford again, to find a way of wheedling the sky-stone out of those two. But first he needed to rest, and he sent out his son, Hak, to perform two errands. One was to let it be known that he had the sky-stone — a little lie, but one he would rectify soon enough. The other was to fetch some food from the widow living down the lane from his lodgings.
Stowing his satchelful of kimiyeh and painted stones in one corner of the bare room that he and Hak shared, Covele slumped down on the creaky pallet that was the only furnishing. He tossed his spiked hat on top of the satchel and lay back exhausted. It was not long before his eyes closed, and he drifted off to sleep. His dream of untold wealth, however, was soon disturbed by a creaking sound from outside his room. He sat up, guessing that Hak had returned with some provisions. But the boy was usually boisterous, and he realized that the sound had not been followed by Hak’s normal clamour.
‘Hak? Is that you? Stop playing tricks on your father, boy. Bring me the food.’
Covele fancied he heard a low sigh, but nothing more. He started to feel a prickle of fear running down his spine. Barefoot, he pattered over to the door, putting his ear to it.
‘Hak?’
This time he did not call out, but only whispered his query. He didn’t really want anyone to answer. Better that the person behind the door was only in his imagination. He lifted the latch slowly.
Hak had delayed his return to his father because he had hoped to see the King. He first passed the message about the sky-stone on to the old man, Elias, who groaned at discovering that what he sought was now a hundred miles away. The boy had told him his father would get it back within days. But the old man knew Covele could not afford a horse and would have to walk, a journey that would take at least three weeks. He cursed the old woman, Magote, who he was sure was responsible for the stone being stolen from him in the first place. Just his luck that the King should turn up wanting the stone.
‘The King is here now and is seeking the stone in order to cure him of his ailments. If anyone gets to know that I had it and lost it, I will be in grave trouble. And I will make sure your father shares the punishment, too.’
He put his grey-haired head in his hands and moaned over his ill luck. Hak quietly retreated. Free of the old man’s interrogations, he scurried out into the street. He was excited. The King was in Norwich! So instead of immediately going to fetch the food his father wanted, he dawdled around the close where the cathedral stood. He knew that rich folk stayed there when they visited the town. Maybe, if he waited long enough, he would get to see King Henry himself. However, he managed to hang around only long enough for one of the black-garbed priests who wandered in and out of the big church to take note of him. Finally, the man hurried over and tried to strike him across the face.
‘Get away from here, Jew. Go back to your own kind.’
Hak expertly dodged the flailing hand and ran off towards the Jewish quarter. He had lingered as long as he dared anyway without incurring his father’s wrath. On the way back, he collected a dish of warm potage from the widow woman who cooked for other Jews, exchanging it for the few coins his father had given him. She covered the dish with a greyish, thin cloth and adjured the boy to hurry home before the broth got cold. Hak carefully negotiated the muddy lane back to the tenement where he and his father lived. At one point he slipped silently down a side alley when he saw some roistering Christian boys coming his way. He knew if he was not careful they would jostle him, and the broth would be all over the ground. Fortunately, they had not spotted his evasive action and ran past the end of the dark alley laughing and shouting. Safe from their attentions, but once again delayed, Hak hurried the final distance to the crumbling house where he and his father had a room. It was easy to negotiate the front door, even with a dish in both hands. The door had not closed properly in years, and it hung half off its hinges. Hak slipped through the gap and made for the back of the house. Closest to the midden in the backyard, the room Covele rented was the cheapest of all.
‘Father, I am back. I am sorry it took so long. I had to wait at the widow’s for-’
The excuse died on his lips when he saw that the door to their room was ajar. His father never left the door open under any circumstances. Covele preached safety and circumspection to his son. They were, after all, Jews in a Christian world, with precious items worth much money. Hak nudged the door further open with his foot. It gave that familiar creak, which almost reassured him that all was well. But then he saw his father sprawled out on the bed they shared at night, blood leaking from his mouth. He gasped, and dropped the dish of stew on the dirty rush- strewn floor. The pottery bowl shattered, and the contents bled through the cloth that clung to the mess and oozed across the beaten earth. Covele’s dull, staring eyes slowly focused on his son. Hak sighed.
‘Father. I thought you were dead.’
Covele seemed unable to comprehend for a while what Hak was saying. Then he saw the mess on the floor. ‘The food… You dropped the bowl.’
Hak wasn’t sure if he was more scared at thinking his father dead or at finding him alive but not the same father. Covele’s normally sharp tones were dulled, and he appeared uncertain of his surroundings. He helped his father sit up, wiping the blood from his lips. He saw now that a swelling was coming on his jaw. Someone had hit his father hard in the face.
‘Who did this, Father? Who hit you?’
Covele ignored his questions, glancing fearfully around him, as though his attacker could be hiding somewhere in the bare, small room. His fear was so palpable that Hak, too, found himself looking around the chamber. It was a foolish act. There was nowhere anyone could hide. The boy tried to cheer his father up by asking about Oxford.
‘When do we start out for Oxford again, Father? The sooner we get the sky-stone back, the better things will
