Ivar grimaced. Of course he had! The sky-stone would bring the little foundation great wealth, and monks, like the indolent Aidan and the fiery Marcus, would be only too grateful to spend it on themselves. Ivar had learned years ago that the inhabitants of such places were not gentle saints who dedicated their lives to God, as he had been led to believe, but were men with the usual human failings of greed and ambition.
Then there was the constable at the castle, arrived within the last few months — the constable was the man in charge of the fortress and its troops, who held his command directly from the King. Walter de Clare would love to lay his hands on the sky-stone, so he could dole out its favours to those he needed to impress. He was already regarded with fear and suspicion in his new domain, partly because of his ugly character, but mostly because of the mysterious and convenient ‘accident’ that had killed his predecessor — like Nest, Sir Drogo de Hauteville had gone over a cliff.
Walter would not come for the stone himself, of course: he was too cowardly. He would send his henchmen, battle-honed Norman knights, who would stop at nothing to carry out his orders. Two stood out to Ivar as particularly dangerous: Pigot, who was huge, strong and had a reputation for cruelty, and the angel-faced Revelle, who was too intelligent to serve a man like Walter, and so represented something of an enigma.
Ivar thought back over his life, sorry he had wasted so much of it. He could have achieved great things — it was not as if he had been short of dreams as he grew up on the Greenland farm. But after the shipwreck that had washed him up on the wild Hibernian shore so far from where he had intended to go, he had been confused and frightened. The sky-stone had saved his life, he was sure of that, and he knew it had been for a reason. But what? Everything that had once been so clear to him had become vague and uncertain.
Within days of the four survivors finding themselves thrown on to the shore, an entire army had appeared at the coast to take sail. But its leader lay near death, wounded by a battleaxe. The sky-stone had made him whole again, and suddenly the four were viewed as great healers and men of God. In appreciation, the now-healthy Rhys ap Tewdwr took them with him across a narrow sea, to where he reconquered his lost homeland and reclaimed his title as Prince of Deheubarth.
For five years they remained in Rhys’s court at Dinefwr Castle — and Ivar often pondered the safety of the sky-stone — before the Prince was killed by the Normans. Two of the shipwrecked survivors also died in the conflict, and Ivar and the other disappeared into the deep forests and crags near Estrighoiel. There, a quiet, reflective life in a hermit’s cave had not always kept the tension from building between the two. So, having always fancied himself something of an explorer, Ivar finally departed, leaving the sky-stone behind only because he sensed it did not want to leave the wooded hills.
He had travelled far and wide, but the sky-stone was always in the back of his mind. It had taken years, but he had returned eventually, and had wept for joy when the stone lay in his hand again. It had not changed — it was still glossy, with the curious shape that might be a bird or a ship. Or even a cross, perhaps. And although he was now the only survivor, the cave was still there, hidden among the ferns and the trees. He found it was a good place in which to live, especially to a man used to polar winters.
When times were very hard, he would venture into Estrighoiel and sell remedies for various minor hurts. But he was always careful to keep the stone hidden when he applied them, so no one would know the real reason why his cures worked. It was better that way, because he sensed there was a limit to the sky-stone’s powers — use it too much, and it might not perform in the event that he needed it for himself.
And then, one day, he had happened across Nest and the men who were stalking her with lust in their eyes. Ivar could not be certain, because they kept themselves concealed, but he thought they were knights from the castle. Nest was beautiful, with long black hair and perfect features, and Ivar knew people had been bemused when she chose the plain Cadowan for her husband. But Ivar understood: Cadowan was wealthy, and well able to afford the clothes that showed off Nest’s lithe figure and the jewellery that sparkled at her slender throat and on her fingers.
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
