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,
