The Sacred stone

Act One

Estrighoiel (now Chepstow), summer 1101

The weathered recluse was frightened. Ever since he had used the sky-stone to save Cadowan’s wife, people had been trying to find him, demanding cures. And demanding answers, too. They wanted to know how he had been able to wrest a woman from the jaws of death. Was it by God’s grace or the devil’s? All that most of them knew was that Nest claimed he had put a curiously shaped stone in her hand and urged it to heal her — and it had. Was it true? Where was this stone? Surely, if it had truly helped her, it should be in a shrine, not in the care of a grizzled, cantankerous hermit in a cave in the woods?

Ivar knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that someone was going to try to take it from him. Nest and Cadowan were good people, which was why he had helped Nest when he had come across her, twisted and broken, after her fall down the cliff. She had promised to keep silent about what had happened, but there had been witnesses — those who had chased her and driven her over the precipice in the first place — and they had accused her of being in league with Satan. To save her, her husband had told the truth, and then Nest had followed suit. Ivar did not blame them; he would probably have done the same.

But it meant that now, after years of solitude, Ivar’s sanctuary was under siege. People flocked to him with their questions, pleas and demands, and he knew he could not stay in his refuge much longer. Nest and Cadowan had tried to buy the stone from him, and when he had refused to part with it they had urged him to take it to the monastery in Estrighoiel, where Prior Odo had offered to keep it safe and use it wisely.

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 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.

‘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.’

‘He did not kill her,’ said Aidan tiredly, putting out a warning hand as Marcus started to surge forward angrily. ‘He tried to save h er when she was dragged from the river, but she was beyond his skills. No one, other than you at the castle, blames him for that.’

‘He does not cast spells and conjure up Satan, either,’ declared Marcus, clearly furious. ‘I confess I find Ivar difficult, but we shall stand by him against all lies spread by seculars.’

Revelle shrugged. ‘He will show his true colours one day, and then you will be sorry you did not listen to our warnings. The devil will come and drag him down to hell — and will take every single one of you with him. You are a fool to keep protecting him.’

‘You are the fool,’ muttered Marcus under his breath.

‘God’s blood!’ muttered Roger at Geoffrey’s side. ‘Quarrelsome villagers, argumentative knights and hot-tongued monks whose comrades cast spells to summon the devil! What sort of place is Estrighoiel?’

Geoffrey led the way towards the priory, supposing he had better make himself known to Hilde’s uncle as soon as possible. He dismounted by a wooden gate and knocked. A metal grille set in the door flew open, and he could see a pair of unfriendly eyes on the other side. The fellow’s robes indicated he was a lay brother.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded. ‘You cannot come in, whatever it is. We are busy.’

Geoffrey was taken aback. Monasteries were usually hospitable to travellers, especially ones whose surcoats said they had been to the Holy Land. But then, the confrontation in the market suggested something odd was happening in the town, so he supposed he should not be surprised.

‘We have come to visit Brother Leger. He is uncle to my wife.’

‘He is? Oh, Christ!’

The grille was slammed closed, leaving Geoffrey staring at it in astonishment. Roger’s expression hardened.

‘That was plain rude. Shall we break down the door and teach them a lesson? Hilde said there are only twelve monks here, and I doubt they have more than six lay brothers. Few will be armed, and we could take the place easily. And if they harbour Satan-worshippers, then the town and the castle will not object.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, seeing his friend was perfectly serious. ‘We are not in the business of sacking monasteries.’

‘We did it in Antioch,’ Roger pointed out. ‘On the Crusade.’

‘That was different. We are here to help Hilde’s uncle, not besiege his home.’

Roger grimaced, then wiped his face again with his filthy piece of silk. ‘We should not have worn armour today — it is far too hot. I am being roasted alive.’

‘Wait for me in a tavern,’ suggested Geoffrey, suspecting gaining access to Leger might take some time and loath to have Roger complaining while he persuaded the brothers that he was not there to accuse them of drunkenness, dishonesty or failing to save children from drowning. ‘I will join you there later.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Roger. ‘But fetch me if there is any fighting. I will not be pleased to hear you have enjoyed yourself without me.’

Geoffrey was relieved when Roger disappeared into a large, neat tavern with a sign outside indicating it was the White Lion. He was about to knock on the priory gate again when the grille snapped open and a different pair of eyes inspected him. This time, they belonged to a monk with white hair, the kind of nose that said he liked a drink, and a large wooden cross around his neck, like the one Aidan wore.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded haughtily. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am here to visit Leger,’ replied Geoffrey patiently. ‘He sent word to his niece, Hilde, that he might be in trouble.’

‘That is one way of putting it,’ muttered the monk. ‘He is dead.’

It was not easy persuading the Benedictine to open the door so that the conversation did not have to take place in a busy thoroughfare. Geoffrey did not like the fact that people were stopping to listen, and if it had not been for his promise to Hilde he might have turned around and gone home.

‘It might be better if we had this discussion inside,’ he said to the monk. ‘A crowd is gathering, and I understand you are already the subject of rumours-’

‘All lies, put about by the evil Walter,’ declared the monk. But he, too, was eyeing the spectators. Some were muttering that Leger’s demise was because the monks harboured a Satanist, while others claimed Walter had arranged the death. A few discussions were growing rancorous. Then the door opened, and a beckoning finger indicated that Geoffrey was to step through it.

‘I am Prior Odo,’ said the red-nosed monk. ‘I am sorry to give you the bad news. Poor Leger died last night, I am afraid.’

‘How?’ asked the knight. ‘My wife told me he is not yet fifty, so it cannot-’

‘It is an internal matter,’ said Odo stiffly. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you.’

‘Hilde will want to know what happened,’ warned Geoffrey. ‘So you can either tell me, or you can tell her — because she will descend on you herself if she is not satisfied with my answers. If you have ever met her, you will know I am right.’

Odo gulped. ‘I have met her, and there is nothing I would like more than to furnish you with the information that will keep her away. But I cannot, because I have no idea what happened.’

‘Then tell me what you do know.’

‘A few days ago, Leger said someone was trying to kill him, and grew very agitated — he wrote to your wife, begging for help. He claimed there was poison in his food, and the cat did refuse to eat it when offered, but it is a fussy creature and may not have been hungry.’

‘He told Hilde someone threw a knife at him.’

‘He told me that, too. But we live a very secluded life here. We have no enemies.’

‘Are you saying he died of natural causes, then? Or that he killed himself?’

Odo crossed himself. ‘He was stabbed in the back, which is decidedly unnatural.’

‘It is not easy to do if you are trying to commit suicide, either,’ remarked Geoffrey. ‘And that leaves murder, which means he had at least one enemy and that he was perfectly justified in being afraid for his life.’

‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Odo reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I should have heeded his concerns.’

Geoffrey regarded him askance. ‘After two attempts on his life? Yes, you should!’

Odo looked sheepish. ‘Would you like to see his body? You are obviously a soldier, so you will be familiar with wounds. Perhaps it might tell you something.’

Inspecting corpses was not a way Geoffrey would have chosen to spend a summer afternoon, but he followed Odo across a cobbled yard to the church. It was a beautiful building, with one of the finest carved doors he had ever seen. He stopped to admire it, but the prior was disinclined to spend time on pleasantries and indicated impatiently that he was to enter.

The building was blessedly cool after the heat outside. It was also dark, and Geoffrey tripped over several uneven flagstones as he followed Odo to one of the transepts. Leger, dressed in a clean habit and with his hands folded over his chest, lay in a plain wooden coffin. It was a kindly face, browned by the sun, and Geoffrey had the immediate impression that he probably would have liked him. The insight surprised him, because he did not care for many members of Hilde’s large and bellicose family.

‘This is where he was stabbed,’ said Odo, hauling the body into a sitting position and sliding the robe down its back so Geoffrey could see.

It was not a large wound, although a faint bruising around it suggested it had been delivered with considerable force. Geoffrey peered at it in the gloom and imagined it went very deep. He had no doubt at all that it would have killed Leger all but instantly.

‘Where did he die?’ he asked, watching the prior lay the corpse back down again. ‘You said it was last night. Was he asleep?’

‘He refused to come to the dormitory with the rest of us — said he would be safer here.’

‘He was dispatched in a church?’ Geoffrey was shocked. He was not particularly devout, but the notion of committing murder on consecrated ground was anathema, even to him.

Odo nodded. ‘As he knelt to pray in this very lady chapel. The rest of us retired to bed after compline, and we found him dead at matins. Ergo, he was struck down during the night.’

‘He sounded terrified in his letter, so I am sure you would not have left him here alone while you went to sleep,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Who was with him?’

Odo looked sheepish. ‘No one.’ He became defensive when he saw the knight’s disapproval. ‘He said he would be safe in here. We tried to persuade him to come with us to the dormitory, but he refused. In the end we gave up — we are busy men and need our sleep.’

‘Then who was in the priory, other than you and your monks?’

‘No one — the lay brothers go home at dusk. We lock the gate behind them and do not open it to anyone until the following morning. No one can come in or go out.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘So one of your monks killed him.’

‘No! They are all as shocked by this as I am.’

‘Leger’s wound was not self-inflicted,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and clearly it was no accident. That leaves two possibilities: he was killed by a monk, or he was killed by an intruder. You say no one can come in or out…’

Odo swallowed hard. ‘What are we going to do? Leger was loved in the town, because of his kind heart. People will demand answers — but we have none to give!’

‘Do you have any idea why he suddenly became so fearful?’

Odo tried to calm himself with several deep breaths. ‘None at all, although I suppose I should not be surprised that the current feud with the castle has ended in bloodshed.’

‘What feud?’

‘Estrighoiel was a peaceful, happy town until a little more than two years ago, and we all liked Drogo de Hauteville, who was the constable. Then he “fell” over a cliff, and Satan’s spawn arrived very quickly to take his place. Immediately, things began to change. He has spies everywhere, even in the priory, and there is an atmosphere.. ’

‘Satan’s spawn?’

‘Walter de Clare — and his henchmen Revelle and Pigot. I would not be at all surprised to learn that they murdered Leger.’

‘Why would they pick on him? Did he speak out against them?’

‘He did not approve of them, certainly. And then there is Cadowan and his wife Nest. They wanted to buy Ivar’s sky-stone and were bitterly disappointed when he refused to sell.’

Geoffrey was confused. ‘What is a sky-stone?’

‘A piece of star that fell to earth in some godforsaken land to the north. Ivar brought it here, and it is said to be able to heal people.’

Geoffrey thought about what he had overheard at the market: Nest saved, but not Walter’s child. Was this why Walter and his men seemed to hate the priory? If so, it was unfair to pick on Leger. Why not Ivar, who owned the thing?

‘Where is it?’ he asked, wondering if it was in the church and if Leger had been struck down as someone attempted to make off with it.

Odo grimaced. ‘Ivar declines to say, despite my cajoling over the last two years — such a thing belongs in a shrine, not in whichever wretched hiding place he has chosen. But he maintains that God gave it to him, so he should decide its fate. It is difficult to argue with such conviction.’

‘So no one else knows where he has put it?’

‘No one. Ivar never leaves the priory these days, lest someone lays hold of him and tries to force him to tell. I do not blame him for being wary — Walter would tear him to pieces for failing to save Eleanor, while Cadowan and Nest are eager to own the stone.’

‘So these are your suspects for killing Leger? Walter and his men, and the town couple?’

Odo nodded. Geoffrey turned abruptly and walked back to the gate. It was sturdy and secured by two heavy bars that slotted into the wall on either side. Clearly, an intruder was not going to enter that way. Then he began to walk around the perimeter, and his heart sank. There were several places where an agile man could scramble across, and he saw that anyone could have invaded the monks’ domain and committed murder while Leger’s brethren slept.

‘What do you plan to do about this, Father Prior?’ he asked.

Odo shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. We have barely had time to gather our thoughts.’

‘May I speak to the other monks?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Why?’ demanded Odo suspiciously. ‘None of us heard or saw anything amiss.’

‘Sometimes there are witnesses — they just do not know what they have seen.’

Odo stared at him. ‘Are you saying you intend to look into the matter on our behalf?’

‘On Hilde’s behalf,’ corrected Geoffrey.

‘Then thank you,’ said Odo. He gripped Geoffrey’s hand. ‘I shall take you to see my flock now, and you may ask them anything you please.’

Odo conducted Geoffrey to a refectory, where ten monks were sitting down to a meal. Lay brothers served them, and he saw that the Benedictines had carved a comfortable existence for themselves. Their habits were made of finest wool, although a concession to poverty was made in the simple wooden crosses that hung around their necks. The only exception was Brother Marcus, one of the pair Geoffrey had seen in the market, who sported a fine gold one.

Most of the monks were in their thirties or forties and seemed sleek and well fed. Geoffrey had been expecting older men, and it occurred to him that any of those now present would possess the strength to ram a knife between Leger’s shoulder blades, despite Odo’s contention that the killer was someone from outside.

One sat slightly apart from the others, and looked as if his life had been much harder than theirs. He had a shock of prematurely grey hair, and his skin was brown and wrinkled, as if he had spent many years out of doors. Although he was now stooped, his size and shape indicated that he had once been a formidable man. The knight saw tears glittering on his cheeks.

‘That is Ivar,’ murmured Odo. ‘He was a hermit in the woods for years before taking the cowl. Ivar and poor Leger were particular friends.’

‘Ivar?’ asked Geoffrey, regarding the man at the centre of such controversy with interest.

Odo narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you heard the horrible lies Walter has spread about him?’

‘I heard his magic stone failed to save Walter’s daughter.’

Odo waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ivar has explained that — the stone can cure but not raise from the dead. And poor Eleanor was dead long before Revelle dragged Ivar from his cave to tend her. But I was not referring to those lies. I was asking whether you had heard the others — about the bad things that have happened since Ivar decided to take the cowl.’

‘Not really.’

‘Poor crops, flooded rivers and now this suspiciously nice weather. But Walter and his creatures arrived at the same time that Ivar took his vows, so I believe they are responsible for our downturn in fortunes. They say Ivar has been seen worshipping the devil, but he is a monk now, so clearly they are lying.’

‘Do you think Walter killed Leger to give credence to their tales?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘The murder of Ivar’s friend would certainly damage his reputation further-’

‘It damages them,’ declared Odo fiercely. ‘I would not have believed they would stoop to such wickedness, but perhaps you are right. They will almost certainly say Ivar did it. And their spy will fabricate “evidence” to prove it.’

‘You have no idea about the identity of this spy?’

Odo suddenly looked old. ‘No. I have charged Brother Marcus to find out, because he is a dedicated and thorough man. His questions have seen him arrested and held prisoner at the castle on several occasions, but he has no answers yet.’

‘It seems a sorry state of affairs,’ mused Geoffrey. ‘Castle and Church bandying accusations back and forth like fishwives.’

Odo glowered. ‘They started it!’

‘Where does the town stand in this dispute?’

Odo’s glower intensified. ‘The sensible ones see we are the wronged party, but the lunatics support Walter and his villains.’

‘In other words, the feud is pulling the place apart.’

Odo continued to glare but made no other reply.

‘I had better ask my questions,’ said Geoffrey, wanting the case solved as quickly as possible. With such a bitter quarrel, it would not be wise to risk becoming embroiled in it.

‘We shall say a psalm first,’ said Odo piously. ‘And then a prayer. And then you may ask us anything you like.’

Geoffrey studied the monks as they stood and allowed their prior to lead them in their devotions. They sang lustily — with the exception of Ivar, who did not seem to know the words — and clearly enjoyed impressing their guest with their chanting. It confirmed Geoffrey’s initial impression: that the priory put great store in outward appearances. But what lay within?

‘Brother Leger thought someone was trying to kill him,’ said the large, amiable monk who had been addressed as Brother Aidan in the market. His companion, the hot-tempered Marcus, sat next to him. ‘We were disinclined to believe him, because we did not imagine for a moment that Walter and his henchmen would murder any of us.’

‘He hates us all,’ said Marcus, fingering his gold cross. ‘But I still refuse to accept that he stooped so low as to stab a monk in a church. I think Cadowan and Nest did it. They were probably looking for the sky-stone. Leger caught them, so they killed him.’

‘Did Leger see who threw the dagger at him earlier?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Or who tampered with his food?’

‘Not that he told me,’ said Aidan. ‘And I questioned him about both incidents.’

‘Then what explanation did he give? He must have had some notion as to why someone meant him harm.’

‘He thought it might be something to do with our feud with the castle,’ replied Aidan. ‘Meanwhile, we heard and saw nothing of his killer. We all retired to bed, and everything was quiet and peaceful until we rose to pray before dawn. Finding him with a dagger in his back was a terrible shock.’

There was a chorus of agreement, but Geoffrey could not tell how much of it was sincere. Would one stab a comrade, just because it would be assumed that Walter had done it, and thus topple the constable from his seat?

‘Did you keep the dagger?’ asked Geoffrey, wondering whether it might be identified and its owner traced. It would not be the first time an inexperienced murderer had made a careless mistake.

‘I threw it in the river,’ said Marcus. He shot Geoffrey a defiant look, as if daring him to criticize. ‘It was a hateful thing and had no place in our holy precinct.’

‘It did not occur to any of us that it might be needed,’ added Aidan.

‘Is it retrievable?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘No,’ said Marcus immediately. ‘The Wye is fast and muddy, and it will be long gone by now. That is why I deposited it there — I did not want anyone else to touch the filthy thing. It is tainted and evil, like the hand that wielded it.’

‘What did it look like?’

Marcus shrugged and would not meet the knight’s eyes. ‘Just some cheap, nasty thing that can be bought in the market.’

‘I think Walter, Revelle or Pigot is responsible for Leger’s murder,’ said Aidan quietly. ‘Because he was Ivar’s friend, and we all know they would do anything to hurt Ivar.’

‘But we have no evidence to make such a claim,’ said Marcus bitterly. ‘Like my belief that Nest and Cadowan are the guilty party. Both theories are just suspicions — ones that may well prove true, but not ones we can prove.’

‘I am surprised you do not leap at the chance to accuse Walter,’ said Aidan, turning to the younger monk and raising his eyebrows. ‘After all the grim nights you have spent incarcerated in his dungeons.’

‘I hate him,’ acknowledged Marcus. ‘But there is no evidence that he or his henchmen killed Leger.’

Odo sighed as he turned to Geoffrey. ‘This case will not be easy to solve.’

Geoffrey had a bad feeling he might be right.

While the Benedictines began to talk among themselves, Geoffrey went to sit next to Ivar, who had not taken part in the discussion. He was reading a book, but when Geoffrey looked at it he saw it was held upside down. His first thought was that the monk’s eyes were failing, but Ivar regarded Geoffrey sharply enough, and the knight supposed he was just one of many monastics who was illiterate, but who did not like to admit it.

‘Walter de Clare likes to tell tales about me,’ the monk said softly. ‘He thinks I commune with the devil. But if I did, why would I have come to live in a priory? It would be difficult to speak to my familiar in a community of Benedictines.’

‘Perhaps he means to malign all the priory’s residents,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘And chose you as a scapegoat, because…’ He faltered.

‘Because of Eleanor,’ said Ivar bitterly, and Geoffrey saw tears sparkling in his eyes. ‘If I could have saved that little angel, I would have. But it was beyond me. Walter thinks I failed deliberately, but he is wrong. He says the town’s problems started that day — and he is right. I decided to join the priory, and castle and Church have been at loggerheads ever since.’

He had a curious accent — one that Geoffrey had heard before, when he had joined men from many nations to march towards Jerusalem. ‘You sound as though you hail from the kingdom of the Danes.’

Ivar smiled. ‘I have been told that before, although I have never been there. Many years ago, I lived in a village in a country far to the north. I was called Ivar Jorundsson then.’

‘Greenland? My father had some gaming pieces made from Greenlandic ivory.’

Ivar inclined his head, still smiling. ‘It is rare to meet someone who has heard of my homeland. Most cannot believe such a place exists — a land of ice and snow and mountains.’

‘So how do you come to be here?’

‘When I was a young man, it was arranged that I would take the cowl in Iceland, but there was a terrible storm during which many sailors were lost, including the navigators. We drifted aimlessly for weeks, never in sight of land. Then pirates took us prisoner, but another storm wrecked their ship, and I was washed up on the shore of Hibernia.’

‘I see.’ Geoffrey wondered if Walter might have a point when he claimed Ivar had brought bad luck. One storm was bad enough, but two and pirates was remarkably unfortunate.

‘There were few survivors,’ Ivar continued. ‘But we were brought to the west of this land by the noble Prince Rhys of Deheubarth. When he was killed in battle and his territories taken by the Normans, I continued east with another survivor of the shipwreck, and when we found this perfect country of woods and rivers we took it as a sign from God that we should settle here.’

‘How long ago was that?’

Ivar shrugged. ‘Ten years or so; I cannot recall exactly. Later I followed the crusading call of Peter the Hermit, and accompanied his glorious force to Constantinople and beyond. There I witnessed the great battle where so many of his followers fell.’

‘Near Civetot?’ asked Geoffrey. He had heard stories of that particular massacre, which many felt had been avenged several years later when the forces of which he himself had been a part had besieged, taken and pillaged the Holy City of Jerusalem.

Ivar nodded. ‘It was pure slaughter, and shocked me into returning here. I found the cave I had sheltered in previously, and decided to remain. After seeing all of those terrible things, I liked living away from the world of men, and wish I was there now.’

‘Then why did you leave it?’

‘Because of Eleanor.’ Ivar looked away. ‘Some people turned against me then, and Prior Odo suggested I would be safer here. He was right: Walter might have killed me, otherwise.’

‘You took holy orders?’

‘Yes — as I should have done years ago. It was always my intention, but I was happy in the cave. The forest provided fruit, berries and nuts, and the river is full of fish. And when times were bleak, I healed people in exchange for food.’

‘Healed them of what?’

Ivar shrugged. ‘Small things — warts, aching joints. I helped just enough folk to keep me from starving. I pretended to heal them with my remedies, but it was really the sky-stone.’

‘Odo mentioned that you had hidden it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should tell someone else in case I drop dead? Or because Walter’s hatred means that I have not much time left?’ Ivar shrugged again. ‘Then it will be God’s will.’

There was no point in arguing once God was mentioned, and Geoffrey did not try. ‘How did you come by it?’ he asked instead.

‘My brother found it when we were children. I was taking it to the Church in Iceland when I was shipwrecked, but God obviously did not want it to go there. Anyway, the sky-stone cured me of a crooked leg, then healed two men of terrible wounds from a white bear.’

‘Then it does have remarkable power,’ said Geoffrey. ‘So why do you keep it hidden? Why not use it to help people?’

‘Because it does not always work, as was shown with Eleanor. And because it might wear out if it is overused. Besides, God did not tell me to tout it about, and I am loath to offend Him — I do not want to suffer more storms, shipwrecks and pirates.’

‘But it saved the lives of three people,’ argued Geoffrey. ‘Surely, that must mean it-’

‘Two were killed the following day, because they tried to take it for their own ends.’

Geoffrey was bemused. ‘You killed them?’

Ivar was appalled. ‘No, of course not! I was seven years old — too small to hold a sword, let alone use one. It was my father’s doing. He was a gentle man mostly, but he knew how to fight.’

‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, not seeing at all. But Ivar’s rambling discourse was doing nothing to forward his enquiries. He stood to leave, but the man reached out and pulled him back down.

‘I told Leger where I hid the sky-stone. He was the only one, because I dare not trust anyone else. I told him last week.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘Last week was when he started to say someone was trying to kill him.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you saying Leger was murdered because you told him of the sky-stone’s whereabouts?’

Ivar looked out of the window. ‘Hermits do not have friends, and it was difficult to adapt to life in a priory. Leger helped me, with patience and understanding. He was the closest I have had to a true friend in my life. I trusted him completely. So I asked him what should be done with this gift from God. And I told him where it was hidden.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he needed time to think and confer with others. He left the priory that day but would not say where he had been. And that night he began to say that someone had designs on his life.’

‘You think he conferred with someone who then tried to kill him? Who?’

‘I do not know, but I wish with all my heart that I had kept my mouth shut. There are many who would kill for the secret. Walter, Revelle and Pigot are soldiers, used to blood. Nest and Cadowan are good folk, but the sky-stone has a way of bringing out the worst in people. And my brethren here are worldly, and love money and power. I do not trust any of them.’

‘It will be easy to know whether Leger revealed the secret — go to where you hid the sky-stone and see whether it is still there. If it is, then he did not tell anyone. If it is not, then he did.’

Ivar winced. ‘I moved it within moments of his going out. I am afraid I did not like the fact that he could not give me an immediate answer, and I grew uneasy.’

‘In other words, someone might have killed him because he revealed the location of the sky-stone, but it was not where he said it would be,’ concluded Geoffrey.

Ivar nodded slowly. ‘It is certainly possible. I tried to talk to him about it, but he became distant and worried. I have told you this because I want his killer found — you must question Walter, Odo and Cadowan, and demand to know where they were last night.’

‘Perhaps you should write down where you have hidden this stone,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘Because if anything happens to you, then it really will be lost for ever.’

‘Not for ever,’ said Ivar. ‘These objects have a way of putting themselves in the place where they mean to be. It may lie hidden for decades — centuries, even — but it will emerge in the end.’

Geoffrey was silent for a moment, thinking about what had been said, but when he turned back to Ivar his eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. Odo approached before the knight could wake him.

‘Leave him,’ the prior said softly. ‘He is distressed by what happened to Leger, and it is good that he sleeps. I do not suppose he confided where he hid the sky-stone, did he? If so, you must tell me. You will appreciate that it belongs here, in the hands of the Church.’

Geoffrey shook his head, watching the flash of disappointment in the prior’s eyes. ‘He said he told Leger, but no one else.’

Odo looked angry. ‘Did he? Then why did Leger not tell me? I was his prior — I am used to making weighty decisions, and he was not. It was his duty to tell me, as one of my monks.’

It was not a question Geoffrey could answer, so he did not try. ‘Ivar does not seem like a man who would fit well into your community,’ he observed. ‘I am surprised you took him.’

Odo glared at him. ‘And what do you mean by that, pray?’

‘He is illiterate, for a start.’

Odo continued to glare. ‘How do you know?’

‘First, he was holding his book upside down, and, second, when you sang your psalm he stumbled over the words. He has memorized some, but not all, and cannot read to jog his memory.’

And there was also the fact that most of the elegant, self-assured men in the priory would not seek out the company of grubby hermits, so Geoffrey could only suppose that Odo and his monks must want very badly to lay hands on the sky-stone, and thought earning Ivar’s gratitude for good food and comfortable lodgings was the best way to go about it.

Odo regarded him with an unfriendly expression. ‘He fits in well enough.’

Geoffrey changed the subject. ‘Just after Ivar shared his secret with Leger, Leger went out. When he returned, he began to be concerned about his safety. Where might he have gone?’

Odo narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you suggesting he told someone outside the priory about the sky-stone’s whereabouts, and that person began to threaten him?’

‘It is impossible to say without more evidence. Who might he have visited?’

‘Anyone!’ declared Odo, angry and distressed. ‘Perhaps he told Walter, because once the constable has the stone, he might leave the priory alone. Leger hated discord and might have gone to Walter in the hope that giving away the stone would heal the rift between us.’

‘Surely, then Walter would have killed him at the castle?’

Odo gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘He would not — it would have laid him open to accusations, and Satan’s spawn is nothing if not clever. It would be entirely within keeping with his sly character to kill Leger later, in his own church. Of course, he would not do the deed himself — that is what Pigot and Revelle are for.’

‘Did Leger have any friends outside the priory who-’

‘Cadowan and Nest!’ exclaimed Odo. ‘They are desperate to have the stone, too, and he was fond of them. Perhaps he told them the secret, and they killed him to make sure he did not tell anyone else.’

‘I doubt they would have waited a week,’ Geoffrey pointed out. ‘There would be no point in dispatching him then.’

Odo pressed his lips together in a long, firm line. ‘So you say, but there is no accounting for what folk might do when they are determined.’

There was little point in arguing with him. ‘We discussed the possibility earlier that Walter has a spy in the priory-’

‘Walter has spies everywhere,’ declared Odo angrily. ‘But he does seem to have recruited one who sells him sensitive information about us. I am not a drunkard — I like a little wine on occasion, but who does not? And our sacristan is not dishonest, nor our cellarer debauched. But these lies are spread around the town, so we become a laughing stock.’

‘Perhaps this spy learned what Ivar had told Leger,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘He is clearly adept at listening to conversations not intended for his ears, so perhaps-’

‘Leger and Ivar would have taken more care,’ interrupted Odo. ‘The spy is not one of my monks, and the lay brothers are beyond reproach, so I imagine it is some sly dog from the castle or the town. God knows, Walter has enough of them in his pay.’

‘May I inspect Leger’s possessions?’ asked Geoffrey, doubting there would be much to find but supposing he had better be thorough.

‘Not today,’ said Odo. ‘It is almost time for vespers, and I would like to be present when you do it. Come tomorrow, after dawn prayers.’

‘It would be better to start now,’ objected Geoffrey, not liking the delay. If the culprit was in the priory, then it would give him hours to eliminate crucial evidence.

‘I have spoken,’ declared Odo loftily. ‘Return tomorrow. I shall be expecting you.’

‘You cannot investigate this,’ said Roger irritably, sitting in the White Lion with a jug of cool ale. ‘It is none of your business.’

‘I cannot return to Hilde without answers,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Leger was her favourite uncle. She will want to know that his killer has been brought to justice.’

‘Then let the constable do it,’ argued Roger. ‘You have no jurisdiction here, and the whole thing sounds farfetched, anyway. I have never heard of sky-stones.’

‘Nor have I, but that does not mean they do not exist.’

Roger sighed. ‘This is a bad idea. Let Hilde come to ask questions, if she is going to be curious. I do not like it here and want to leave. It feels like a place where trouble is brewing.’

‘Then you should feel at home,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You thrive on trouble.’

‘I like fighting,’ acknowledged Roger. ‘But I only like doing it with enemies I can see. Here, I feel they are all around me and I cannot tell who they are. I do not like it, Geoff. We should leave this place. Tonight. I would rather sleep under the stars than stay here after nightfall.’

Geoffrey raised his hands in surrender. ‘Then go. Return to Goodrich and tell Hilde what has happened, and that I am trying to investigate. But do not let her come.’

‘Why not? She is the one wanting answers.’

‘Because you are right: there is something strange going on, and I would rather she stayed well away. She is my wife, Roger.’

‘Yes, but I have never met a lass better able to take care of herself.’ The admiration was clear in Roger’s voice, and Geoffrey wondered whether he should have married her. ‘I have rarely seen such skill with a battleaxe.’

‘You are not easily unsettled, and if you do not feel safe here then neither will she be.’

‘And neither will you,’ Roger pointed out.

Geoffrey went on as if he had not spoken. ‘Besides, I do not trust what Odo and his monks told me, and I do not understand Ivar. There is a peculiar story to be unravelled, and I would like to do it. For Hilde and for Leger.’

‘It is-’ began Roger, but stopped speaking abruptly when the door opened and Revelle and Pigot shoved their way inside. The tavern immediately divided between those who made for the rear door and those who exchanged nods and smiles with the two men. Three others followed Revelle and Pigot — two more knights, and someone who was obviously their leader. The leader was smaller than the others, with reddish hair and eyes oddly close together. Geoffrey suspected, from the richness of his clothes and the shine on his sword, that his spurs had been earned because he was nobly born, not because he had proved himself in battle.

The newcomer peered around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom after the bright sunlight outside, then strode towards the table at which Geoffrey and Roger sat.

‘I understand you visited the priory,’ he said icily. ‘Why?’

‘What business is that of yours, little man?’ demanded Roger, unwisely hostile in his turn.

‘I am Sir Walter de Clare, constable of the castle,’ the man replied. ‘I am ordering you to leave Estrighoiel immediately. My family holds the favour of the King, so you will do well to do as you are told.’

‘I have never heard of you,’ said Roger rudely. ‘I know Gilbert and Roger de Clare, who are always hanging around the royal courts. But who are you? Some distant cousin?’

‘I am their younger brother,’ said Walter, angered by the insult. ‘And a knight in my own right. Now, are you going to leave peacefully or do my men have to use force?’

Geoffrey supposed Walter did bear a resemblance to the de Clares he had met when serving the King. He had not taken to them, although he suspected his dislike stemmed from the rumours regarding the peculiar death of King William II in the New Forest — and the fact that the archer who had loosed the fatal ‘accidental’ shot just happened to be married to one of their sisters. He found them sly and secretive, and he could tell that Walter was cast in the same mould.

‘Force?’ asked Roger, his voice dripping scorn as he looked Walter and his four knights up and down with calculated disdain. ‘You think they can best two Jerosolimitani?’

The loutish Pigot reacted immediately by drawing his sword, but Revelle stepped between his friend and their quarry.

‘Wait,’ he muttered. ‘Give them a chance to go peaceably.’

‘My men can best you with ease,’ said Walter to Roger, ignoring his henchman’s efforts to calm the situation. Geoffrey was amused to note that he did not include himself in the challenge.

‘Can they indeed?’ asked Roger dangerously. ‘Perhaps we should have a wager on that.’

‘Why?’ snarled Pigot. ‘You will not be alive to pay it.’

‘Why do you object to us visiting the priory?’ asked Geoffrey, cutting across the furious rejoinder Roger started to make. ‘Did we upset someone?’

‘I am not prepared to wait and find out,’ said Walter. ‘I know you were asking about Leger’s murder and the whereabouts of the sky-stone. These are not matters that concern you.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘Your intelligence network is impressive, but-’

Walter looked pleased with himself. ‘I know everything that happens in my town.’

‘Then who killed Leger?’ pounced Geoffrey.

‘Pigot! Elias! Escort them out,’ ordered Walter. ‘Revelle and Seine bring up the rear. I do not have time for this nonsense.’

‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Roger. He seemed to have forgotten that he had been eager to leave not many moments before. ‘We are free men; we have the right to go where we please.’

‘Not in Estrighoiel,’ replied Walter. There was a cant in his eyes that was every bit as dangerous as Roger’s, and Geoffrey saw it would be unwise to antagonize him any further.

‘We are leaving,’ he said, standing. ‘We do not want trouble.’

Anger suffused Roger’s face. ‘I am not being ousted by this upstart. And his henchmen can try to make me leave if they dare. It would be a pleasure to skewer them.’

‘We will not be gone long,’ murmured Geoffrey in his ear. ‘Just follow me now. I will explain later.’

‘There is something bewilderingly perverse about you,’ grumbled Roger, deliberately knocking into Pigot as he followed Geoffrey outside. Pigot staggered, and it was only Revelle’s warning glare that prevented him from drawing his sword. ‘I never know what you are going to do next.’

But he was used to deferring to Geoffrey in tactics, so he let the matter lie. Walter’s men had already been in the stables, and the horses were saddled and ready. To make the point that he was not to be bullied, Roger began to make a fuss about the way his bags had been secured.

‘The strap is broken,’ he declared. It had been fine earlier and Geoffrey wondered whether he had cut it himself. Roger looked directly at Pigot. ‘You had better mend it for me.’

‘Mend it yourself,’ snarled Pigot. ‘I am no man’s servant.’

‘No?’ responded Roger. ‘I thought you were the constable’s lackey.’

Pigot’s sword was out of its sheath in seconds.

There would have been bloodshed had not Revelle stepped in front of Pigot, then clicked his fingers to several men in the crowd that had gathered to watch, ordering them to mend the strap.

‘Do not annoy Pigot,’ whispered a man who stood near Geoffrey. It was the red-faced merchant called Cadowan, his pretty wife Nest at his side. ‘And tell your friend he is pushing Walter too far. Our constable is a dangerous man.’

‘In what way?’ asked Geoffrey. A messenger had arrived, claiming the attention of Walter, Revelle and the other two knights, while Pigot continued to banter words — but at least not blows — with Roger.

‘We are fairly sure he killed his predecessor — Drogo de Hauteville,’ replied Nest. Her voice was low and pleasant, and Geoffrey found himself wishing Hilde had some of her looks. ‘Drogo plummeted over a cliff in the woods, even though he knew the area well and was unlikely to have lost his way.’

‘He was killed instantly,’ added Cadowan, taking up the tale. ‘And within hours, Walter arrived. He said he just happened to be passing when he heard the news, and he stepped into Drogo’s shoes because no one else was to hand.’

‘The King must be satisfied with him or he would have been replaced.’

‘Walter put down a small rebellion,’ said Cadowan, his voice dripping disgust. ‘Although we suspect it was engineered by Revelle to give his master an opportunity to shine.’

Geoffrey frowned. The whole affair did sti nk of treachery.

‘We suspect Walter killed Leger, too,’ whispered Cadowan. ‘Although I imagine he will have blamed the monks in the priory. Or even us. Am I right?’

Geoffrey shrugged, unwilling to gossip. ‘I have been listening to accusations all afternoon. It is difficult to keep them straight.’

Cadowan shot an angry glare towards Walter. ‘Nothing has been right since that devious dog arrived. He blames it on Ivar, but it was hardly Ivar’s fault that he could not save Eleanor — the sky-stone does not work for everyone. Thank God it did on Nest.’

‘I could feel myself dying,’ said Nest quietly, ‘but then Ivar put the stone in my hand, and the life began to course through me again. Walter can say what he likes, but the stone is sacred.’

‘The monks want it badly,’ said Cadowan. ‘But they are not very saintly men, and I would not like to think of such a pure thing in their hands. I tried to buy it from Ivar, so I could take it to a monastery with devout monks, rather than this worldly horde. But Ivar will not sell.’

‘Does he explain why not?’

Both shook their heads. ‘He said he would wait for God to tell him who to give it to,’ said Nest. ‘But-’

‘Enough,’ roared Walter, finishing with the messenger and seeing Geoffrey speaking to the merchant and his wife. ‘Get on your horses and leave. You have wasted enough of our time.’

Eager to avoid further confrontation, Geoffrey mounted up. But Roger once again had to have the final say.

‘Perhaps you could bend down so that I could step on your back to mount,’ he said to Pigot.

The other knight’s face was a mask of unbridled hatred as he reached for his sword. But Roger struck him on the forehead with the metal hilt of his dagger, and Pigot dropped senseless to the ground.

The constable squawked in alarm as all the knights immediately assumed fighting stances. In a move born out of sheer terror, he lobbed his sword at Geoffrey. It was an unconventional manoeuvre, and not one any sane knight would perform — it would leave him effectively unarmed. But because of its very nature, it took Geoffrey by surprise, and there was a burning pain in his arm — his armour had leather sleeves, and the blade had sliced through one of them. He struggled to raise his shield as first Elias and then Revelle began a series of hacking blows.

‘The King will have your head for this,’ Roger bellowed, realizing too late that the odds were not very favourable. ‘He will not appreciate his agents being murdered.’

‘Agents?’ asked Walter, making an abrupt gesture that stopped his knights from attacking, although they remained alert. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Geoffrey is one of his most trusted officers,’ said Roger loudly.

‘Geoffrey?’ asked Walter uneasily. ‘Not Sir Geoffrey Mappestone? Of Goodrich?’

‘The very same,’ shouted Roger. ‘Which you would have known, had you bothered to ask.’

‘My cousin, William Giffard — who is the Bishop of Winchester — mentioned Geoffrey Mappestone in a letter he wrote to me,’ said Revelle, sheathing his sword. ‘And his description matches this man. Giffard said Geoffrey has helped the King with a number of difficult problems.’

‘Then why did you not tell us who you were?’ said Walter, expansive and oily. ‘Your reputation goes before you, and His Majesty has often sung your praises. Elias! Seine! Why are you standing there like great apes? Welcome our new friends. We must amend this silly misunderstanding.’

Geoffrey did not want to step inside Castelle de Estrighoiel — not because it was the lair of a man who had lobbed a sword at him, but because it was owned by the King. He had learned from bitter experience that it was safer to stay well away from anything under Henry’s control.

‘We will stay in an inn,’ he said, trying not to show how painful his injury was.

‘Nonsense,’ declared Walter. ‘They are likely to be full by now, and there is plenty of room at the castle. Besides, it is the least I can do. You do understand that I would never have tackled you had you told me your name, do you not?’

Geoffrey nodded, although he was not much comforted. It meant Walter was not averse to ambushing other innocent visitors, which hardly made Estrighoiel a place of safety.

‘Then we will stay at the priory,’ he said. ‘There is no need for-’

‘You will not be safe there,’ said Walter darkly. ‘Please, Sir Geoffrey. You will be much more comfortable with us. And you know I mean you no harm — if I had, you would be dead by now. And you are still very much alive.’

‘Why did you stay your hand?’ asked Geoffrey. The King would be vexed to lose the services of a retainer, but no more — Geoffrey might be useful to Henry, but Henry did not like him, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated.

‘Because the King told me you were a good man to call in times of trouble,’ replied Walter. ‘And this is a turbulent region. If I am to maintain my hold on Estrighoiel, then I shall need all the allies I can get.’

‘Your hold on Estrighoiel is insecure?’

If that were the case, then Geoffrey was disgusted, because defending such a mighty fortress should have been child’s play. Then he looked at the constable’s shiny mail and untried sword, and understood the situation: Walter was but a shadow of his older brothers. Estrighoiel was his chance to make a mark, but it was unlikely that he would be equal to the task.

Walter shot him a furtive glance. ‘Treachery is rife. No one can be trusted, with the exception of these four knights — Revelle, Pigot, Seine and Elias.’

‘Why is treachery rife?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘There will be grievances between Normans and locals — both English and Welsh — but you should be able to manage those with diplomacy.’

‘People will not do as they are told,’ said Walter sullenly, and Geoffrey saw he was a petty despot — that he ruled by fear.

‘It is not an area that responds well to force,’ Geoffrey said carefully. ‘Bribery works much better.’

‘Why should I yield to the demands of peasants?’ snapped Walter angrily. ‘I am above such paltry dealings. But why did you come to Estrighoiel? What did you want here?’

It was on the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to remark that he should have asked that before trying to throw him out of the town, but he managed to suppress the instinct.

‘I came because my wife’s uncle wrote to say he was in fear of his life. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to help him.’

‘Leger,’ mused Walter. ‘Odo or one of his brethren will be responsible for Leger’s death. It is a pity — Leger was the only reasonable fellow among them and I am sorry he is dead. But the culprit will not remain free for long. He will be a monk, and lay brothers gossip.’

‘Your spy in the priory is a lay brother?’ asked Geoffrey, supposing that would narrow it down. There were only six of those, as opposed to ten monks and a prior.

Walter smiled enigmatically. ‘I am not such a fool as to reveal my sources to anyone who asks. Suffice to say that nothing happens in that priory without my knowledge — and that is important, given that the wicked child-killer and devil-lover Ivar lurks there.’

‘A Satanist would hardly take up residence on consecrated ground,’ said Geoffrey reasonably. ‘It would cramp his style, to say the least.’

‘You assume the priory is holy,’ said Walter curtly. ‘But it is not. Ivar’s demonic evil has rubbed off on them, and they are all wicked now, even if they were not before. It is a pity they are not all stabbed in their church. But never mind this. Let me ask you a question: what were you hoping to learn about Leger’s death?’

‘Just who killed him,’ replied Geoffrey simply.

‘I have just told you who killed him — a monk. Any of them is strong enough, although my money is either on Odo or Aidan, on the grounds that they are the biggest and meanest. Or perhaps Ivar summoned a demon from hell to do it. And if you want to know why Leger was murdered, it will be something to do with that damned sky-stone. Ivar has hidden it and refuses to say where. My spy has done his best to find out, because I would like to get it myself.’

‘It seems a number of people would.’

Walter smiled, although the expression was not a pleasant one. ‘Yes, but they intend to charge the desperate huge amounts of money for cures. I mean to destroy it, so it cannot be used to deceive anyone else. It killed my daughter, you know.’

‘I thought she drowned,’ said Geoffrey, then winced. His wits were not functioning properly, because he would never normally have made such a blunt remark to a man who was clearly still grieving.

‘She fell in the river,’ said Walter softly. ‘But Ivar could have saved her, had he wanted. She was only six. The Satan-lover killed her, and I will never believe any different.’

When they reached the castle, Walter was immediately claimed by a clerk who declared there was urgent business for him to attend. It was left to Revelle to conduct Geoffrey and Roger to their quarters. These comprised a tiny chamber off the main staircase, little more than a cupboard built into the thickness of a wall. But it was palatial compared with some of the places in which they had been obliged to sleep, and reassuringly private.

‘My cousin Giffard wrote a lot about you,’ Revelle said, sitting uninvited on the bench that was the only piece of furniture, other than two straw mattresses and a tiny chest.

‘Did he?’ Geoffrey wished he would go. His injured arm ached, and he wanted to lie down.

‘He said you have helped him on several occasions, and that he considers you a friend. He was fond of Drogo, too — Estrighoiel’s previous constable. But he detests Walter. He advised me against going into his service.’

‘So why did you? Giffard is a wise and intelligent man.’

‘I wish I had listened,’ said Revelle. He glanced towards the door, then went to close it. ‘I have been asked to do things… Walter was never pleasant, but he has been worse since the death of his daughter. It is a pity for everyone that Eleanor died — she had a sunny, gentle disposition, and would have kept him from some of his depredations.’

‘What depredations?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Ordering the death of unarmed monks in churches?’

Revelle looked pained. ‘I am not sure what happened to Leger.’

‘Who is the spy — the man who tells Walter the priory’s secrets?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘He would be a good person to interview tomorrow.’

‘I do not know,’ said Revelle, and Geoffrey had the feeling he was telling the truth. ‘Walter says he trusts us four knights, but there are only so many secrets he shares with us. And the identity of the spy is not one of them — Walter says it must be so, to protect the man. It is unsavoury — I have never approved of spies, personally.’

Neither had Geoffrey, but he said nothing, and Revelle began speaking again.

‘Other crimes are overlooked, too. Have you heard how Nest fell over a cliff and the sky-stone brought her back to life? Well, she was being chased by soldiers from the castle who were intent on rape. Pigot was among them — it was he who told Walter how Ivar saved her. But their actions were overlooked with a wink and a nod.’

‘That will not make Walter popular with the townsfolk.’

‘He is popular with those he pays generously to spy. But others hate him. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell which is which. I plan to leave his service soon. Perhaps Giffard will find me something to do, and Winchester sounds like a nice place to live.’

‘He is not in Winchester at the moment — he is in the midst of a lengthy stay in Exeter.’

‘Then I shall go there,’ determined Revelle. ‘Soon, before I am asked to do anything else that plagues my conscience. Like arresting the hapless Marcus every other week.’

‘That is you? The priory objects to the frequency with which he is detained, and so does he. I am surprised Walter dares — the Church does not like seculars imprisoning its members.’

‘I know, but he is well treated, despite what he claims afterwards. He stays in this room, in fact — where Walter keeps guests, not prisoners.’

‘It feels like a prison to me,’ growled Roger, speaking for the first time since they had arrived in the castle. He was still angry with himself for not besting Seine at the skirmish earlier. ‘I do not like it here. I like Giffard, though, so if you are his cousin, you must be all right.’

Revelle smiled, which made him more angel-like than ever. ‘My whole family likes Giffard, and I appreciate the fact that he takes the time to write to me. Unfortunately, Walter’s clerks are usually too busy to read his letters to me — and I like to hear them more than once. He has a nice way with words.’

‘Geoff can read,’ said Roger brightly. ‘I try to keep it quiet, because it is hardly something worthy of a knight, but it comes in useful sometimes. He will read them to you.’

Smiling, Revelle pulled a bundle of missives from inside his surcoat, while Geoffrey scowled at his friend. He wanted to sleep, not squint over Giffard’s tiny writing by lamplight.

‘I happen to have the most recent ones here,’ Revelle said, ‘because I was going to ask Leger to interpret them for me. Unfortunately, he died before I could approach him.’

Geoffrey forced a smile and unfolded the first one. Giffard did have a way with words, and both Revelle and Roger listened spellbound at the prelate’s accounts of journeys he had taken and people he had met. There was a reference to Geoffrey, flattering enough to make the knight blush. Then there was a description of Estrighoiel during Drogo’s rule. Giffard had been there when Drogo’s accident had occurred, and he expressed reservations about Walter’s role in the affair.

Drogo set off to see the holy man, Giffard wrote. But he knew the land well, and it was no act of God that sent him over the precipice. Beware of your liege lord, cousin.

‘Drogo was going to see Ivar,’ explained Revelle, looking at Geoffrey. ‘But Walter has always claimed Giffard was mistaken — that Drogo did not know the cliffs as well as my cousin said he did. I have never been sure who to believe.’

‘Giffard would not lie,’ said Roger. ‘He is annoyingly honest.’

‘A mistaken belief is not a lie,’ Revelle pointed out. ‘Read the next one.’

‘It is not from Giffard,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The handwriting is different.’

‘Oh, that one,’ said Revelle dismissively, peering over his shoulder. ‘That is some missive he included with one letter, probably by mistake. I have never bothered to have it interpreted, because I am not interested in the ramblings of anyone else — and Walter’s clerks charge me a fortune for their services. I am loath to squander good money.’

‘It is addressed to Drogo,’ said Geoffrey, his interest piqued. ‘And dated five years ago.’

‘What does it say?’ asked Revelle. There was a pained expression on his face: he found the diversion tiresome and wanted to get back to Giffard’s epistles. ‘And who is it from?’

‘It is unsigned, but from someone who feared for his life. It is also in peculiar English, as if it was not its writer’s native tongue. Perhaps he was Welsh. It reads: The killer hunted me in darkness, and it is not long ere my light is gone. The great battle turned an already evil mind and Satan walks the earth.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Roger with a shudder. ‘That is unpleasant. I wish you had not bothered. There is a seal, too, at the bottom of the letter.’

‘It is not a seal,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is a shape filled with red ink. It looks like an angel.’

‘Not an angel,’ said Roger, frowning. ‘It is some archaic weapon. Or perhaps Satan!’

‘Actually, it is a boat,’ said Revelle. ‘There are a number of families in Estrighoiel who have made their fortunes from shipping — like Cadowan and Nest. Perhaps one of them has taken this symbol to represent them. Regardless, it means nothing.’

But Geoffrey was not so sure.

Revelle left eventually, to Geoffrey’s relief. The pain in his arm had settled down to a dull nag, and he wanted to sleep. Or should he? He did not feel safe in the castle.

‘I will take first watch,’ said Roger, reading his mind, ‘and wake you later.’

Geoffrey lay down and fell into a doze immediately, having the soldier’s ability to nap anywhere and in almost any conditions. He felt better when he awoke, although his arm still throbbed unpleasantly. He supposed he should inspect it, but that would entail removing his armour, and he was reluctant to do that as long as he was in the castle. He decided to leave it until later.

To take his mind off it, he thought about what he had learned of Leger’s death. Unfortunately, it was pitifully little. He knew there were suspects in the town, the castle and the priory, and that all blamed the others for the man’s murder. He also knew Leger had probably been killed because Ivar had trusted him with a dangerous secret. Who had Leger gone out to see immediately after Ivar had confided his tale? Was that person the killer? Could it be assumed that it was no one at the priory, because Leger had left soon after the discussion with Ivar?

Geoffrey frowned. He could assume nothing, because the evidence was not there. He let his mind wander to Giffard, and hoped the bishop was enjoying his sojourn in Exeter. Then he thought about Ivar and his cave, and how dismal it must have been in winter, even for a man used to Greenland weather. And he thought about the sky-stone. Could it really heal? Why had it helped Nest and not Eleanor? Was it really because it would help only the living, and those who had already passed into death were out of luck?

Bored with waiting for dawn to come, he began to count the stones in the wall, working out patterns and multiples in his mind. He noticed that one stone stood slightly proud of the others, and the longer he looked at it the more he became sure that something was odd about it. He stood, and the movement disturbed Roger, who, rubbing sleep from his eyes, rose to see what his friend was doing.

It did not take Geoffrey long to see that the brick was loose. He tugged it out. Beyond it was a recess, in which was concealed a small box. It was beautifully made, and boasted three red chevrons, the de Clare family symbol. Geoffrey opened it. Inside was a crude wooden cross and several gold coins. Roger’s eyes gleamed.

‘Treasure!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who would have thought it? Give it to me. I shall put it somewhere safe, although you can keep the cross.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It is evidence.’

Roger did not look impressed. ‘Evidence for what?’

‘Evidence that Marcus is the spy at the monastery.’

Roger gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’

‘Because he, alone of the monks at the priory, wears a gold cross around his neck — all the others wear wooden ones like this. I suspect he was given a better one to wear in its place.’

Roger looked doubtful. ‘That is weak, Geoff. You are not thinking clearly.’

But Geoffrey had not finished. ‘He is arrested often, but is not put in a cell. He is brought here, where guests are housed. Why, if he is a prisoner? The answer is that he is not a prisoner at all, but a guest. He provides information, and Walter provides money. But Marcus cannot take it back to the priory, where communal living would give him away.’

‘So he keeps it here,’ finished Roger, ‘in a special box Walter has given him. I think you had better have a word with him at first light.’

Clouds had blown in from the west during the night, and the sky was a dark, ominous amber-grey. It was a shock after so many days of gentle sunshine. Roger regarded it uneasily.

‘The storm will be a bad one,’ he predicted. ‘They always are when clouds have that nasty yellow sheen. Perhaps you were right to be worried about your crops.’

Geoffrey was eager to talk to Marcus before Walter awoke; he did not want the constable to know he had guessed the identity of the spy. He left the castle and walked briskly towards the priory. His arm still ached, but there was no time for such matters, because all he wanted was to identify Leger’s killer and leave Estrighoiel as quickly as possible — preferably before Walter decided Geoffrey was not the sort of ally he wanted anyway.

There was a flicker of lightning, followed by a distant growl of thunder as he knocked on the gate, although it was a long way off. The same lay brother peered through the grille at them, but this time he opened the door and indicated that Geoffrey and Roger were to enter. They were not the only ones to visit: Cadowan and Nest had arrived before them. They nodded at the knights, although there was no warmth in the greeting, only unease.

Dawn prayers had just finished, and the monks were filing out of the church. Some, seeing the state of the weather, headed for the dormitory to collect hoods and cloaks before the deluge, while others drifted towards the scriptorium or the kitchens. Odo had cornered Aidan and was talking to him in a low, urgent voice, while Marcus turned and shot back inside the church when he spotted Geoffrey.

‘Where is he going?’ asked Roger suspiciously.

Ivar, who was passing and overheard, answered. ‘I noticed his mind was elsewhere during the Mass. I imagine he has gone to say a few more prayers, to salve his conscience.’

‘It needs salving for more than that,’ remarked Roger before Geoffrey could stop him. He spoke very loudly, and monks, Cadowan and Nest turned to listen. ‘He is the one who has been telling your priory’s secrets to Walter de Clare.’

Ivar gaped at him. ‘Marcus is the spy? No! It is far more likely to have been Odo.’

‘Odo? Why him?’ asked Geoffrey, watching as the prior broke away from Aidan and disappeared around the side of the church. His affable monk went in the opposite direction and was soon lost to sight among the chicken coops.

Ivar lowered his voice. ‘Because he pretends to be pleasant, but there is a black heart beneath his habit. My other suspect is Aidan, who alone of the monks likes to wander the town on his own. None of us knows what he does, and he gets testy when we ask. And the spy cannot be Marcus, anyway, because he is the one who is most vocal about the damage the spy does with his tales.’

And that, Geoffrey thought, was exactly what Marcus would say when he was confronted with the evidence of his treachery. He was about to say so when Ivar, seeing Cadowan and Nest indicate they wanted to speak to him, turned and broke into a run. They followed, making a comical procession as they rounded the church.

Then the gate opened again and Walter strode inside, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle; his four knights were at his heels. Their arrival was oddly timed, and Geoffrey wondered whether they had heard Roger’s pronouncement from outside — it had certainly been loud enough. Pigot’s dark face creased into a scowl when he saw Roger, although Revelle smiled a friendly greeting. Walter grinned when he saw Geoffrey, all teeth and no sincerity.

‘You are up early,’ the constable remarked. ‘I expected you to sleep late, given that you must have been tired after yesterday’s exertions. I am sorry business claimed me last night, depriving us of the opportunity to chat, but we shall rectify that today. I am eager to make better acquaintance with one of the King’s agents.’

Odo appeared suddenly from the direction of the church. He was breathless and looked flustered; Aidan was not far behind him. Odo stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Walter’s words.

‘You are the King’s agent?’ he demanded, regarding Geoffrey with alarm. ‘You did not mention that yesterday.’

‘He is a modest man,’ provided Roger when Geoffrey said nothing. ‘It is usually left to me to do the bragging. And it was as well I did yesterday, or you might have killed him.’ He turned to glower at Walter, who had the grace to look sheepish.

‘Walter tried to harm you?’ asked Odo. An expression of gleeful malice crossed his face. ‘Then it is a matter that must be reported to the King. I shall write this morning and-’

‘Please do not,’ said Geoffrey tiredly, unwilling to have his name brought to Henry’s attention for any reason. ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

Odo’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not believe you. And you do not look well today. You-’

‘He said it was a misunderstanding,’ snarled Walter, coming to stand close to the prior and insinuating enough menace into his words to make Odo step back in alarm. ‘So that is an end to it. You would do better to pay heed to your own business — for example, establishing which of your monks murdered Leger, who, incidentally, is uncle to Sir Geoffrey’s wife.’

‘That means Geoffrey is Leger’s kin, and you are in serious trouble,’ added Pigot provocatively.

‘How dare you make such accusations,’ shouted Odo. ‘You know perfectly well that the villain was one of the brutes who stand at your heels. They have killed before and-’

‘I came to return this,’ interrupted Walter. He pulled the cloth from the parcel he held, to reveal a large altar-cross. ‘It was found in the possession of a local thief, and I imagined you would be pleased to have it back. However, I did not come here to bandy words with you. I am above such indignities. With your permission, I shall take it to the church.’

He turned and strutted away, without waiting to hear whether he had permission or not, leaving Odo grinding his teeth in impotent rage. It was a clever piece of manipulation — coming to present the priory with stolen property, and then manoeuvring himself into the position of injured party during the exchange that followed — although Geoffrey saw through it. But Walter’s games with the priory were not his concern.

‘We need to talk to Marcus,’ he told Odo, watching as Walter and his henchmen opened the church door and disappeared inside.

‘He is your spy,’ added Roger, presenting the little box and its contents with a flourish. Geoffrey closed his eyes. He had imagined the thing had been left where it had been found and would have stopped Roger, had he seen him removing it.

Aidan snatched it from him. ‘Walter owns a lot of these. I know, because when we say Masses for his daughter’s soul, the coins come in one. And here is one of our wooden crosses. It looks like Marcus’s — his was chipped when he dropped it once, and here you can see a small piece is missing.’

‘But Marcus told me he lost it,’ said Odo, bemused. ‘And that his family had sent him a gold one as a replacement. He asked my permission to wear it, because he said a gift from his family helped alleviate the sorrow he felt at losing the one he was given at his ordination.’

‘If this cross was at the castle,’ said Aidan, staring at his prior with worried eyes, ‘then it means Walter stole it. Marcus would not have parted with it otherwise. Or it fell off when he was in their dungeons.’

‘Fell off into a box?’ asked Roger archly. ‘Which was then hidden in a wall of the room allocated to him when he is at the castle? And in company with gold coins?’

‘There are no gold coins in here,’ said Aidan, peering into the box doubtfully.

‘They must have fallen out,’ said Roger smoothly.

‘We should confront Walter,’ said Aidan, watching as the constable left the church. Walter was walking briskly, giving the impression of being a busy man. ‘He is here anyway.’

‘No,’ said Odo, reaching out a hand to stop him. ‘We will talk to Marcus first. Where is he?’

‘Asking forgiveness for his sins in the church,’ replied Roger piously, ignoring the fact that he had some sins of his own to confess, the most recent being theft.

Odo set off towards the building, the others at his heels. It was far darker than it had been the previous day, because of the gathering thunderclouds. As if to accentuate the point, there was a flash of lightning and another growl of thunder, this time closer.

It illuminated Marcus, who was in the Lady Chapel next to Leger’s coffin. He was lying on his face, and there was a dagger protruding from his back.

Odo released a strangled cry and ran towards him, while the blood drained from Aidan’s face. Geoffrey dropped to one knee beside the prostrate monk but could see he was past all earthly help. Like Leger, he had been killed neatly and proficiently with a single, efficient blow.

‘Walter!’ exclaimed Aidan. ‘He was just in here. He killed Marcus!’

‘He might have done,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘However, you can see from here that the cross is back on the high altar. Perhaps Walter really did just replace it and leave.’

‘Then why did he not raise the alarm when he found Marcus?’ demanded Aidan.

‘Because you would not be able to see a body on the Lady Chapel floor from the high altar,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘And Walter is not stupid, anyway: he is unlikely to commit such a bold murder when he is the obvious suspect.’

Or, he wondered, was that what Walter was hoping everyone would think? That the clever constable would be more subtle in dispatching his enemies? But Marcus was not an enemy — he was a much-valued spy. Of course, Geoffrey thought wryly, he had probably heard Roger’s stentorian announcement, and so knew the monk would no longer be of use to him — worse, that he might be a liability, should Odo decide to write to the King. The knight rubbed his head, not sure what to think.

‘Well, we know the killer is not Odo or Aidan,’ muttered Roger as the two monks began deliberating how best to confront Walter. ‘First, you can see they are shocked. And, second, we saw Marcus enter the church, and they were outside until we came in here.’

‘It is easy to feign horror,’ Geoffrey murmured back. ‘Moreover, both Odo and Aidan disappeared from sight briefly after you announced that Marcus was the spy, and I can see from here that there are another two doors they could have used — one at the back of the building and one at the side.’

‘They would not have had time,’ objected Roger. ‘And they would be drenched in blood.’

But Geoffrey shook his head. ‘You know as well as I do that it takes but a moment to plunge a knife into a kneeling man’s back — and that leaving the weapon in the wound reduces spillage.’

Roger frowned. ‘But this means our suspects for Marcus’s murder are the same as the ones for Leger — Walter and his creatures, and Odo and all his monks. We cannot eliminate anyone.’

‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘And you can add Cadowan and Nest to the list, too. They also disappeared from sight after you bawled our findings to half of Wales.’

Roger looked indignant. ‘I merely spoke the truth. But which of these villains do you think is the culprit? You have a sharp mind: you must have some theories.’

‘Not really,’ said Geoffrey. ‘However, while all our suspects had the opportunity to dispatch Marcus, they do not all have a motive. I understand why Walter might have done it — and the monks will certainly want to avenge themselves on the spy who has been selling embarrassing secrets to the castle. But Cadowan and Nest?’

‘They are obsessed with getting the sky-stone,’ said Roger. ‘Perhaps they think the spy at the priory is one reason why Ivar is so distrustful. In other words, Marcus’s death will mean everyone likes each other again, and Ivar will relax enough to part with the thing.’

It did not sound very likely, but Geoffrey was acutely aware that there was a lot they did not know about Estrighoiel and its inhabitants. Cadowan and Nest might have a motive that had not yet been uncovered. He winced when there was a particularly loud grumble of thunder. It rattled the glass in the window frames, and the lightning that flashed just before it was enough to turn the twilight gloom into bright daylight.

‘Which of those dogs did it, do you think?’ Aidan was asking Odo, clearly having dismissed Geoffrey’s reasons for why Walter might be innocent. He was fingering a dagger. Monks were not supposed to carry weapons, and Geoffrey wondered where it had come from.

‘Revelle, probably,’ replied Odo bitterly. ‘He will obey any order, no matter how repugnant. Or his stupid friend Pigot. Walter would not have delivered the fatal blow himself. But one thing is clear: we shall not sit back and do nothing while a second monk is murdered.’

‘A monk who was a spy,’ Roger pointed out.

‘But a monk nonetheless,’ said Aidan coldly. ‘Yet some good will come out of this dreadful business: the King will have no choice but to remove Walter from office now.’

Geoffrey stared after him as he stalked away. Having Walter under suspicion of murder would put the priory at a significant advantage, and was yet another reason why the monks should remain on his list of suspects.

While the Benedictines started moving Marcus’s body to an outbuilding for washing, Geoffrey began to feel that the odds of solving the crime were too great, and he seriously considered riding away and telling Hilde that her uncle had been killed by a lunatic who randomly slaughtered monks at their prayers. Unfortunately, she was unlikely to be satisfied with such an answer, and he also knew that the mystery would gnaw at him if he did not stay to solve it.

As they exited the church, Walter returned, this time with a contingent of soldiers as well as his knights, and offered to set them to investigating the latest crime. Odo’s jaw dropped in astonishment at what he declared was mind-boggling audacity, while Cadowan and Nest watched the scene with expressions that were difficult to read. Geoffrey was not sure what to make of any of them.

‘You asked yesterday to examine Leger’s possessions,’ said Aidan, handing Geoffrey a box. ‘He did not have many — he followed our order’s policy of poverty, obedience and chastity.’

The knight was acutely aware that everyone was watching as he began to sort through the chest’s contents. Cadowan and Nest were blank-faced. Odo and his monks were vengeful and angry, although Ivar seemed more distressed than enraged. And the men from the castle were alert and tense; Geoffrey realized uncomfortably that they seemed full of pent-up violence,

He doubted there would be anything useful in Leger’s belongings — not so long after his death, and with the entire priory aware that he had asked to inspect them. There was a spare habit, another plain wooden cross and some letters from Hilde. Odo’s eyebrows drew together in disapproval when he saw them: monks were not supposed to hoard keepsakes.

‘Nothing,’ said Roger in disgust.

Absently, Geoffrey unfolded one or two of the letters, half listening to a tension-loaded discussion between Walter, Odo and Cadowan about who might have committed the second murder. None of them said anything new: Odo thought the suspect hailed from the castle, Walter claimed it was a monk or a townsman, while Cadowan pointed out that the priory and the castle held the most obvious suspects. Tearfully, Ivar announced that he distrusted everyone, and even included Geoffrey and Roger in his accusing glare. The bald declaration silenced the clamour of the others, and so did the growl of thunder that followed it.

A tiny piece of parchment had been hidden in the third letter Geoffrey opened. The spidery writing looked as if it had been penned by the same hand as the desperate letter to Hilde. The knight had no doubt that it was Leger’s. He began to read:

Brother Ivar shared a terrible secret with me today. He told me the location of the sky-stone, which lies at the base of the great oak below the cliffs from which Drogo fell. I urged him to set it on the altar, because it comes from God, but he is afraid. Perhaps it would be best if it stayed hidden, because it brings out evil in good men. I fear for my life now. It is

There was no more, and Geoffrey could only assume that the monk had been interrupted before he could finish. He became aware that people were regarding him expectantly, so he handed the letter to Odo, who read it with narrowed eyes. The prior glared at Ivar.

‘You concealed the sky-stone under a tree?’ he demanded angrily. ‘You stupid fool! Why did you not bring it here, to be safe?’

‘No!’ cried Ivar, blood draining from his face. ‘Leger promised never to reveal my secret — not until we had discussed together what was to be done. He promised!’

‘That was before he knew it might cost him his life,’ said Aidan angrily. ‘Why did you burden him with this knowledge? Why not Odo or me? We are men who know how to look after ourselves, but he was not. You killed him with your nasty games!’

Ivar looked ready to cry, while Geoffrey considered the information with interest; Odo and Aidan knew how to look after themselves, and he had seen Aidan with a dagger. Did that mean they were not averse to shedding a little blood for whatever cause they believed in?

‘We had better go and lay hold of it,’ said Odo to his monks. ‘We do not want it falling into the wrong hands.’ He looked pointedly at Walter, who bristled.

‘What do you mean by that?’ the constable demanded. ‘And why should you have it? If Ivar had wanted it to go to the Church, he would have given it to you when he took holy orders.’

‘I do not want any of you to have it!’ shouted Ivar. ‘I have kept it safe for years, and I shall decide where it goes when my death is near.’

‘Then you had better make a decision soon,’ growled Pigot. ‘Or you may run out of time. Like Leger.’

‘Is that a threat or an unintentional confession?’ demanded Odo. ‘It sounded like the latter. In other words, you killed Leger, because you guessed Ivar had confided in him, and you wanted the thing for yourself.’

‘We do not want it,’ said Walter contemptuously, while the black-haired knight blanched at the accusation. ‘Why would we, when it failed to save Eleanor?’

‘Because it saved me,’ said Nest quietly. She looked directly at Pigot. ‘When I was being chased by men with harmful intent.’

Pigot flushed guiltily, although Walter was incensed. ‘That incident had nothing to do with us, as I have already told you.’

‘But Pigot has not,’ said Cadowan, who had not missed the knight’s reaction. ‘Let him hold Leger’s cross and deny it. If he lies, he will be struck down. Here — take it.’

‘Perhaps we did follow Nest when we saw her alone by the cliffs,’ snarled Pigot, putting his hands behind his back when Cadowan tried to thrust the cross into them. ‘But you cannot prove our intentions were dishonourable.’

‘It does not matter,’ said Nest quietly, pulling her husband away. ‘It was a long time ago, and all forgotten.’

‘Not by me,’ hissed Cadowan. ‘It will never be forgotten by me.’

‘Never mind this irrelevance,’ said Walter briskly. ‘As constable, it is my duty to find this stone and smash it before any more evil is done. I shall prepare a search party.’

‘No!’ cried Ivar, darting forward. ‘You cannot destroy it! It is a gift from God.’

‘Get away from me, you devil-lover,’ snarled Walter. ‘Your stone will soon be dust.’ Then he snapped his fingers to indicate his men were to fall in behind him and left the priory without another word.

‘We had better make sure we reach it first,’ said Odo grimly. He looked around at his monks, who were already donning cloaks against the looming storm. ‘We cannot stand by and see a gift from God destroyed. You had better stay here, Ivar — you will slow us down.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘You will have to hurry: if Walter reaches it first, it will not be easy to wrest it from him. He and his men are armed.’

‘There are many ways to the base of the cliff,’ said Aidan. He grinned wildly. ‘And I believe I know a faster way than Walter.’

They hurried away, and Geoffrey looked around to find that he and Roger were alone. Cadowan and Nest had also disappeared, while even Ivar, apparently loath to stand by while his treasure was seized, had hobbled after his brethren.

‘It looks as if they all mean to have it,’ said Roger, amused. ‘It is a pity they know these cliffs, because I would not mind owning a healing stone myself — to use on you. You do not look well.’

‘I am all right,’ said Geoffrey, although his arm now throbbed so badly it was difficult to think of anything else. He winced when the next thunderclap started. ‘I suppose all we can do now is wait to see who returns victorious.’

‘Not here, though,’ said Roger, looking around in distaste. ‘We shall visit a tavern.’

The glimmer of a solution was beginning to form at the back of Geoffrey’s mind, and he knew he had enough information and clues to identify Leger’s killer. Unfortunately, the pain in his arm was distracting, and he did not feel equal to the serious thought such an analysis would entail. He followed Roger out of the priory, more than happy to sit in the White Lion until he felt better.

‘You cannot let Walter destroy the sky-stone,’ said Revelle, intercepting them as they walked towards the tavern. Geoffrey blinked, wondering where the angel-faced knight had come from — and why he was not with the bevy of soldiers he could see moving at a rapid lick along the path out of the town. ‘It cured Nest, and there is great good in it.’

‘Probably,’ Geoffrey agreed tiredly. ‘But Aidan knows a faster way, so perhaps he will reach it first. Moreover, Cadowan and Nest have disappeared, and I imagine they also intend to claim it. Thankfully, there is no room for more contenders, because I do not feel-’

‘But Ivar did not head for the base of the cliff,’ said Revelle urgently. ‘He was plodding towards a route to the top and farther west — towards the cave where he used to live. I know, because I went there when Eleanor needed his help. I think the sky-stone is not where he told Leger it was.’

‘Then go,’ suggested Geoffrey, recalling that Ivar had said as much himself — that he had moved the sky-stone after confiding in Leger, because Leger had not given him an immediate answer about what should be done with it. ‘Claim it for yourself, and give it to whichever contender you think the most worthy.’

‘Ivar will not have left it out in full view,’ snapped Revelle. ‘He will have buried it or shoved it in a crevice, and it will take me an age to search for it alone. By then, Walter will have realized the story was a fabrication, and will search the cave as well.’

‘He is your liege lord,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Reason with him if you feel so strongly that-’

‘You do not reason with Walter,’ interrupted Revelle contemptuously. ‘As you should know from yesterday. He will destroy the stone, and we will all be the losers. But if you two come with me now, we can save it together.’

‘But which of us gets to keep it?’ asked Roger acquisitively. ‘Or do we break it in three?’

‘We give it to my cousin,’ said Revelle, ignoring Roger’s pained look and addressing Geoffrey. ‘Bishop Giffard will know how to use it justly.’

‘He will,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘But-’

‘Good,’ interrupted Revelle. ‘Then we must hurry. We shall use a goat-track and will arrive before Ivar is even halfway up.’

The last thing Geoffrey felt like was scrambling up cliffs, but Revelle and Roger were already setting a cracking pace, so he followed as quickly as he could. Once at the woods, Revelle began to follow an almost invisible trail that angled sharply upwards. Geoffrey doubted many human feet had trodden it.

‘How did you discover this route?’ asked Roger, panting as it grew steeper.

‘Hunting for wild boar,’ replied Revelle between quick breaths. ‘It was how I reached Ivar so quickly after Eleanor drowned.’

Geoffrey was breathing heavily, and his vision was becoming blurred, made worse by the fact that the clouds overhead were so black that the morning was more like twilight. He began to wish he had risked removing his armour to inspect his arm the previous night, because now he was developing a fever. He tried to push his discomfort to the back of his mind, but his misery intensified when there was another roll of thunder and rain began to fall.

At first, it was just a few drops, but then the heavens opened with a ferocity the knight had rarely seen. Even the trees did not protect him, and the track underfoot became slick and dangerous. His feet skidded constantly, and, each time he fell, pain shot up his arm. He could not recall when he had last felt so wretched.

‘I cannot continue,’ he gasped to Roger. ‘You go. I will wait here.’

‘Watch out!’ yelled Revelle from above them, and Geoffrey only just managed to leap to one side as a stream of brown water shot by, full of foliage, mud and small stones. The intense rain was washing away the soil that anchored trees and bushes to the ground.

‘You cannot stay here,’ said Roger grimly, grabbing his good arm and hauling him on. ‘You will be swept away. You have no choice but to climb.’

‘Do you think the sky-stone is driving this weather?’ called Revelle uneasily. ‘Is it summoning the help of the elements to ensure it is claimed by the party it wants?’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, refusing to contemplate such a wild notion.

It felt like an age before Revelle shouted that they were near their destination. Geoffrey was exhausted, his arm burned and he could not catch his breath.

‘The cave is there,’ Revelle said, pointing with one hand and reaching down to pull Geoffrey up with the other. The cave’s entrance was well concealed, and Geoffrey would not have known it was there had Revelle not identified it. They fought their way through a curtain of creepers and found themselves in a surprisingly spacious cavern, with a dry, sandy floor. Immediately, the sound of the storm faded.

But they were not alone: Ivar was there. He was breathing hard, as if he, too, had endured a fierce scramble. He had lit a fire and was sprinkling something on it that made it burn a curious blue colour. He was also chanting.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Revelle. ‘And how did you get here before us?’

The former hermit’s face wore a peculiar expression, halfway between malice and triumph. ‘I know these cliffs better than anyone: you could never outrun me. And I am about to summon some help, so I can keep what is mine.’

‘He is calling on Satan!’ cried Roger in alarm. He was about to stride forward and grab Ivar, but stopped when the crazed-looking man pointed a gnarled finger at him.

‘Stand back!’ Ivar ordered. ‘Or you will be sorry. I have called Satan, and he has sent this storm to help me. I control it, and I will use it to destroy you if you come any closer.’

As if to prove his words, a blaze of lightning lit the entire hillside and the loudest crack of thunder Geoffrey had ever heard crashed outside. Several trees burst into flames. Revelle and Roger regarded Ivar with stunned expressions, while answers clicked smartly together in Geoffrey’s mind. He leaned against the wall of the cave and supposed his fever had prevented him from seeing them before, because they were obvious.

‘Ivar is the killer,’ he said, surprised at how feeble his voice sounded. ‘ He killed Leger.’

‘Keep back,’ warned Ivar again. ‘Or you will die.’

Geoffrey saw him hold something above his head. It was a little smaller than his hand and unevenly shaped, bearing the same mark as the symbol on the letter that Giffard had forwarded to Revelle. The sky-stone, thought Geoffrey, gazing at the item that had caused so much trouble.

‘I conjure Satan!’ shouted Ivar wildly. ‘Come, my dark lord!’

‘Get out, quickly!’ hissed Roger, grabbing Revelle’s arm and hauling him backwards. ‘It is not safe in here. Do not just stand there, Geoff! Move!’

But Geoffrey had no strength to move. It was all he could do to lean against the wall of the cave, when his legs threatened to buckle and deposit him on the ground.

‘I thought Walter was being perverse when he accused Ivar of witchcraft,’ said Revelle from outside the cave. ‘But he was right all along! He-’

But suddenly there was a tremendous crash and a huge tongue of flame shot into the cave. It knocked Geoffrey from his feet, and he could feel heat licking his armour. Then it faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind it a rank stench of burning. He looked at the front of the cave, but there was no sign of Roger or Revelle, and the vegetation where they had stood was blackened and smoking. Geoffrey had no doubt that they were dead.

Still staring at the ruined foliage at the mouth of the cave, Geoffrey tried to clamber to his feet. He found he could not do it.

‘Are you still here?’ asked Ivar. He sounded surprised. ‘Well, no matter. You are in no condition to hinder me — you will not take the sky-stone, and nor will anyone.’

‘You killed Leger,’ said Geoffrey dully, not letting himself think about Roger. ‘But not because you told him the location of the sky-stone, since that was a fabrication — it was here all along. You told him a deeper, more terrible secret. And he was appalled and at a loss about what to do, and that wa s why he asked for time to consider the matter. You do not trust anyone, and you thought he was going to betray you.’

‘He did betray me,’ said Ivar bitterly. He barely glanced at Geoffrey, busy with something over his fire. ‘He wrote down what I said about the sky-stone, for anyone to read. And when he left the priory after we had talked, it occurred to me that he might be the spy — that he was running off to tell Walter de Clare all the things I had confided to him.’

‘He was not the spy,’ said Geoffrey, trying again to stand and failing. Another roar of thunder shook the cliffs. ‘He was innocent of everything except befriending a monster.’

‘I should have kept him at a distance,’ spat Ivar, ‘as I have everyone else since I arrived in this godforsaken land. But I had one moment of weakness and confessed that… But that is none of your affair. I realized immediately that I had made a mistake, so I hastened to confuse him by making up a tale about the sky-stone. Then he rushed off, saying he needed time to “reflect”. You cannot blame me for killing him when his behaviour was so suspicious. Why did he want time to reflect?’

‘Because he thought the matter you had entrusted to him was important,’ explained Geoffrey tiredly. ‘He wanted to pray — not in the priory, but alone. But you, who only pretends to hear God, cannot understand that. You tried to stab and poison him when he returned.’

‘I wish I had succeeded,’ muttered Ivar venomously.

‘He did not share your secret with anyone,’ Geoffrey went on. ‘And that means no one was trying to kill him for it. So he knew you were the one trying to take his life. He stayed in the church, thinking that holy ground would stay your hand. He was wrong.’

‘He was a pious fool,’ said Ivar dismissively. He raised his hands again, and almost immediately there was a flicker of lightning outside that seared into Geoffrey’s eyes and forced him to look away. The following thunder was deafening. ‘No one will miss him.’

‘My wife will,’ said Geoffrey. He tried to see what Ivar was doing, but the man’s hands were a blur of practised movements: whatever it was, he had done it before. He changed the subject when he saw that Ivar was not listening, hoping to win time and summon enough strength to prevent whatever diabolical mischief he was creating. ‘You killed Marcus, too.’

‘Your friend said he was the spy,’ said Ivar with a careless shrug, as if the death of a man was nothing. ‘Marcus had no right to take priory business to the evil Walter de Clare.’

‘Walter is evil?’ muttered Geoffrey, taken aback. ‘You are the one summoning the devil.’

‘My evil is pure,’ declared Ivar. ‘His is born of malice.’

Such warped logic was beyond Geoffrey’s understanding. ‘You killed Roger,’ he said as anger gave him the strength to stagger to his feet. ‘There was no need to harm him.’

Ivar barely glanced at him. ‘Was there not? He was a greedy man, who would have stolen my stone without a moment’s hesitation. Him and Revelle. But I will show you all what happens to men who cross me.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Geoffrey uneasily as Ivar tossed more powder on the fire, which burned blue. Outside, the storm continued to rage; the rain was a white veil across the entrance.

Ivar stopped his conjuring to grin. ‘I am avenging myself on all those who mean to steal from me. Do not come any closer, or you will not live to witness it — and I promise it will be impressive. I feel Satan strong within me today.’

Geoffrey again tried to distract him. ‘You probably searched Leger’s belongings, hunting for evidence that he betrayed you.’ He took a step forward, supporting himself on the wall. ‘But you cannot read, so you have no idea what he wrote in-’

Ivar rounded on him. ‘Enough about Leger. I am tired of Leger!’

‘Then let us talk about Ivar Jorundsson instead,’ said Geoffrey, fighting off the dizziness that was beginning to claw at the edges of his vision. The ache in his arm had spread to his whole body, and he knew he would not be able to stay upright for long. ‘You killed him, too.’

Ivar gaped at him. ‘So Leger did betray my secret!’

‘No. It was revealed in a letter that was sent to Drogo de Hauteville five years ago. Bishop Giffard must have taken it after Drogo’s death, then sent it to Revelle. Its sender talked about a killer hunting him in darkness, and a mind lost to evil. The writer was Ivar Jorundsson, and he was referring to you.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Ivar. He was not fiddling with his potions now, and all his attention was focused on Geoffrey.

‘Because it was penned by a non-native speaker of English, and because it had a drawing of the sky-stone. Clearly, the real Ivar sent it, warning Drogo about you — the man who would kill him, steal his stone and use it for selfish purposes. Moreover, Ivar Jorundsson left Greenland to become a monk, which means he was devout and almost certainly literate. You are neither.’

‘Is that the sum of the “evidence” you have?’ sneered Ivar.

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, leaning more heavily against the wall when he felt himself reel. ‘It was obvious from your own story that you were the “other survivor” of the fall of Deheubarth. You probably craved the sky-stone for years, even before the shipwreck, but it was not until you witnessed the slaughter near Civetot seven years ago that your mind turned totally to getting it. And as the last piece of evidence, there is that.’

He pointed to an alcove behind Ivar, whose eyes grew wide with horror when he saw the skeleton that was huddled there. It had been buried, but the explosion that had killed Roger and Revelle had loosened the earth around it, exposing it for all to see.

‘And you probably murdered Drogo,’ Geoffrey went on when Ivar turned back to his fire and began to chant with renewed fervour. Outside, the storm reached new heights of fury, so it felt as if the whole cliff-face was shuddering under its impact. The knight took another step forward.

‘Drogo had met Jorundsson,’ said Ivar. ‘He had to die if I was to assume Jorundsson’s identity, and I am glad he fell over the cliff.’

Geoffrey lunged at him. The madman punched him, using the hand that held the stone. Geoffrey felt a blinding pain in his temple, and then a curious floating sensation. Lights exploded behind his eyes, and he was not sure if it was his imagination or more lightning. Ivar was poised to hit him again, but Geoffrey grabbed his wrist, wrenched the stone away and, after stumbling a few steps, threw it as hard as he could out of the cave’s entrance.

‘No!’ howled Ivar, haring after it.

Geoffrey supposed he should not let him escape. He staggered to the entrance, and winced when there was a terrible scream, followed by the kind of crashing that suggested someone cartwheeling down the tree-studded slope.

‘Geoff!’ exclaimed Roger, appearing suddenly in front of him. ‘I am sorry to abandon you with that villain. I was coming back for you, but that thunderbolt hit and knocked me out of my wits.’

‘Where is Revelle?’ asked Geoffrey. He found he was able to stand unaided.

Roger’s expression darkened, and he looked away. ‘The thunderbolt must have blown him to pieces. And then Ivar went over the cliff — he just tore out of the cave and plunged straight over, trying to catch the sky-stone.’

Geoffrey stood straighter. ‘Did he succeed?’

Roger shook his head. ‘And I am afraid there is no point hunting for the stone, because it will never be found in all that undergrowth. What a pity! I am sure we could have sold it for a handsome price.’

‘It was not something to be haggled over,’ said Geoffrey. He flexed his arm, aware that it no longer throbbed and his wits were clear. He supposed his tussle with Ivar must have dislodged some pocket of poison and allowed his humours to rebalance themselves.

‘The rain has stopped,’ said Roger, squinting into the sky, where a brilliant rainbow was beginning to shimmer. ‘So I recommend we leave, because if anyone else comes up here I am not sure how we shall explain what has happened.’

Nor was Geoffrey.

‘I hate to say it, but Walter was right,’ said Roger as they neared Goodrich the following afternoon, glad to have left Estrighoiel and its warring inhabitants behind. ‘Ivar was evil, and he did try to summon demons from hell.’

‘He did try,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But he did not succeed. All he did was light a fire, throw some handfuls of coloured sand at it and mutter a lot of gibberish.’

Roger gaped at him. ‘But he called up that terrible storm — which seems to have destroyed crops as far as the eye can see.’

‘The storm was brewing long before he went to his cave,’ countered Geoffrey. ‘It was coincidence that it broke when we happened to confront him.’

‘If you say so,’ said Roger, unconvinced. ‘But you cannot deny that he was a selfish, wicked villain. He murdered Ivar Jorundsson to get the sky-stone in the first place, having coveted it for years. He must have killed Drogo, and he stabbed Leger after he had second thoughts about confiding in him. Then he dispatched Marcus because he was the priory spy. Why did he do that, Geoff? He felt no loyalty to his Benedictine brethren.’

‘Probably because he was afraid that a man who snooped might have the skill to learn the whereabouts of the sky-stone and the identity of Leger’s murderer.’

Roger nodded. ‘And Cadowan, Nest, Odo and his monks, Walter, Revelle and Pigot were innocent. However, I confess that I am disappointed that we could not find something with which to accuse Walter and his henchmen. I did not take to them.’

‘The feeling was mutual. But I am sorry we found no trace of Revelle to bury. He was a good man, and I do not like to think of him lying scattered down the cliff.’

‘Unlike Ivar — or whatever his real name was,’ said Roger. ‘Walter found his body.’

They rode silently for several moments.

‘Why do you think the sky-stone helped Nest but not Eleanor — a sweet child whom everyone liked?’ asked Roger.

‘I am not sure it did save Nest. She was probably stunned by her fall, then regained her senses when Ivar reached her and began to call her name.’

‘It cured you,’ Roger pointed out. ‘The arm Walter sliced through, and the fever.’

Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The injury must have been in my mind — I never removed my armour to look at it, so there is no evidence that it was ever there. And the so-called fever was the result of a poor night’s sleep.’

‘It was more than that, Geoff lad! Let me see your arm again.’

Geoffrey pulled up his sleeve to reveal a limb that was smooth and unblemished. ‘See? There was never any wound.’

‘You had a scar there,’ said Roger, pointing. ‘From the battle to take Jerusalem. And another below it from our adventures at Goodrich last year. But both have gone.’

‘They were fading anyway,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The sky-stone had nothing to do with it.’

‘You can think what you like,’ said Roger, kicking his horse into a canter. ‘But I know the truth.’

A few miles away, Revelle was also urging his horse forward, eager to put as much distance between him and Estrighoiel as possible. He smiled as he slipped his hand inside his tunic and felt the reassuring bulk of the sky-stone within. He had thought he was a dead man when the thunderbolt had blown him over the cliff, and he had been lying on the ground, sure his back was broken and his innards crushed. And then a miracle had occurred. The sky-stone had sailed through the air and landed next to him. He had managed to grab it, and within moments he had felt the strength surge back into his limbs.

Had it saved him, or had he just had the breath knocked out of him by the fall? He had dropped a long way — farther than Ivar, and he had been smashed to a pulp. No, Revelle thought, there was power in the sky-stone.

He felt a little guilty at making off with it, but it was for the best. There would never be peace between the castle and the priory if the sky-stone was in Estrighoiel, and he was doing them a favour by spiriting it away. It was not theft, but an act of selflessness — of taking upon himself a burden that was too great for them to bear.

He was glad to be away from Walter and was looking forward to seeing his cousin again. Even if Bishop Giffard could not find him a post, Exeter was said to be a fine city, and the Revelles were a powerful force in the area. It would be a good place in which to settle, and let the sky-stone keep him fit and healthy as he enjoyed the rest of what he hoped would be a long and happy life. And there were others who might benefit from the touch of the stone — an old aunt, crippled with pains in her back, and another cousin who was afflicted with fits.

Or would its effects be weakened if he shared it? Revelle clutched it tighter and decided he had better keep it to himself. After all, he needed all the good graces he could muster, given his sins. He smiled when he thought of Nest. He had almost had her that day in the woods, and it was a pity she had fallen before he could reach her. And then there was Drogo — he had rather enjoyed pushing him over the cliff so Walter could step into his shoes as constable. These were grave crimes, but the stone would save him. Would it not?

Historical note

Storms were always a part of medieval life, and they ruined crops on a regular basis. But the one on 10 August 1103 must have been particularly spectacular, because it was recorded by several contemporary chroniclers. It damaged the harvest so badly that starvation was widespread the following winter.

Odo was an early leader of the Benedictine Priory in Estrighoiel (Chepstow). It was founded by William fitz Osbern, who also built the first Norman castle there. William’s son rebelled against William the Conqueror in 1075, and Chepstow was taken from him in retaliation. It was held directly by the Crown until about 1115, when it was passed to the powerful (and loyal) de Clare family. There were several de Clare brothers, including Gilbert, Roger and Walter. The older two were present at the hunting accident in the New Forest that saw William II (Rufus) killed, leading to Henry I taking the throne. Their sister was married to Walter Tirel, who loosed the fatal arrow.