He pointed with his neatly gloved hand to the dark grey sky-stone that lay in the centre of the table. Falconer cast a sideways glance at Saphira and stepped up to the table, quickly picking the stone up. Suddenly, it seemed as if the two soldiers flanking the courtier swayed in a breeze. Their initial aggressive movement was a reaction to Falconer’s swift step forward. But almost immediately they were checked by a slight twitch of Zellot’s gloved hand. They returned to their former impassivity as if nothing had happened except the slightest of movements. Falconer smiled and hefted the stone in his palm.
‘The King is interested in this?’
‘Yes. Or more accurately its… medicinal properties. We are prepared to pay well for it.’
Falconer snapped his fist closed over the stone. ‘No.’
The courtier seemed a little perturbed by Falconer’s refusal to part with the stone, but he recovered himself well. He managed a smile without actually feeling any pleasure — a useful attribute in the corridors of Westminster Palace — and inclined his head in curiosity.
‘No?’
‘It is not for sale. But I will make it a gift to the King, on the condition that I can present it to him myself.’
This time the courtier smiled genuinely. Zellot thought he had seen right through this Oxford master to the heart of his venality. He wanted to speak to the King in hopes of some worldly reward far greater than mere coinage. Some valuable sinecure, perhaps. Well, he would give him his day at court, but he would find out soon enough how petulant the old King could be. He held out his hand. ‘Of course. It is a bargain.’
Falconer, who had seen a chance to observe for himself how the highest in the land behaved, and not thinking of any other reward but a satisfaction of his curiosity, added a condition. He cocked a thumb at Saphira Le Veske, who had stood silently in the corner marvelling at William’s boldness. ‘And I shall be accompanied by my companion, who is an expert on medicines. She may be of help to the King.’
He refrained from saying out loud that she was likely to be more help to him than a lump of stone that had fallen from the sky. Zellot nodded.
‘You may bring her. The King is always eager to consult another physician.’
The two men shook hands on the deal, and within a short while the oddly matched party had readied themselves, hired horses at Zellot’s expense and were on their way to London.
For the first time in days, Henry had struggled out of his bed and called for his wardroper, Ralph, to assist him in dressing. He always felt at a disadvantage when receiving the Bishop of Narbonne in his bedchamber. Truth to tell, the cleric scared him, what with his dark pools of eyes and his secretive talk of the sacred stone and its powers. Henry was determined the bishop was not going to lay his hands on the stone, however. It was for the sake of his own health that he had sought it out. Suddenly, he felt as if his arm was being torn out of its socket.
‘What are you doing, man? You are ripping me apart.’
Ralph grovelled before His Majesty, apologizing for his rough awkwardness in pulling Henry’s tunic over his arm. He was normally so adept in assisting the King to dress, but his son’s illness weighed heavily on his mind. The boy was wasting away before his parents’ eyes. And the healer woman he had paid out royally for had taken one look at little Robin and shook her head sadly. He could not accept, however, that there was nothing to be done. His sad thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp prod. The King had dug a bony finger in his chest.
‘Pay attention, Ralph, or I shall have to replace you.’
‘Majesty, forgive me.’
Once again Ralph apologized abjectly. He had been wool-gathering, when his duty was to pay full attention to the King. He concentrated enough to help Henry don the rest of his clothes, and assisted him to the grand oak chair that stood at the other end of the chamber to the King’s bed. Having eased his tired body down, Henry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Ralph was glad to escape with his job still intact, but first he had to tidy the rest of the King’s clothes that lay creased and rumpled in the chest at the foot of his bed. His presence was completely ignored as the King’s chamberlain, Sir Thomas Dalyson, entered, followed by the French bishop. He concentrated on his task, making himself as insignificant as possible to these great men. But his son’s fate still hung heavily on his mind.
Dalyson was surprised to see the King sitting up in his chair. The last time he had spoken to the physicians who attended Henry, they had assured him the King was near death. His face was indeed gaunt, resembling parchment stretched over a skull, but his eyes were unusually bright for once. The bishop strode over to the King of England and graciously bowed his head in deference. He even refrained from expressing any annoyance when Henry suggested he draw up a nearby stool, a seat that left the bishop perched at a lower level than the monarch. But for Narbonne what was at stake was more important than mere pride. The bishop’s eyes fixed eagerly on the older man.
‘Tell me, Majesty, have you found it?’
Henry looked at his chamberlain, who was hovering at the back of the room, close to the King’s dishevelled bed. ‘Tell him, Dalyson.’
Sir Thomas took a step or two closer. ‘Indeed we have, my lord. The stone was said to have been in the possession of old Elias of Norwich. He denied it when… questioned, saying it had been stolen from him long ago. He did tell us that somehow it ended up in the hands of an itinerant Jew, who sold it to another of his kind in Oxford. However, as the Jews are no more than the property of the King, it should be no great problem to retrieve the stone. We have dispatched an eager young man called Zellot, who will be back with it by the end of the week. If he values his future.’
The bishop nodded and turned back to the King. ‘Good. May we then talk in private, Majesty?’
Dalyson blushed at the rude dismissal but backed graciously out of the room, leaving the two great men to their business. Henry was a little surprised at his chamberlain’s rapid acceding to Narbonne’s request — he was normally prickly about his position at court — but put it out of his mind as the bishop began to tell him the story of the sky-stone. Engrossed, he went to touch the seal ring on his right hand, as he often did from habit, but realized the finger was bare. He reasoned that, as his fingers had grown thin of late, the ring must have slipped off. He would have to alert Dalyson to its loss as soon as possible, but the tale the bishop was telling was for the moment too intriguing to ignore. The power of the stone to heal and cure fascinated Henry. Neither man noticed the insignificant figure of the King’s wardroper slipping quietly out of the bedchamber.
By pushing the horses to their limit, John Zellot ensured that his small party reached London in the middle of the third day after leaving Oxford. They were tired and covered in dust, but he had achieved his goal of returning within the week. The King would be well pleased, and Zellot hoped for a good reward. He settled the Oxford master and his red-haired strumpet in the guest rooms at Westminster and hurried off, still sweat-stained, to report to Sir Thomas Dalyson. Walking through the corridors of the court, he was suddenly a little fearful that he had not exactly done as he was told but had needed to bring two people with him. And they were people who still laid claim to the possession of the stone. He slowed his pace as his mind raced, trying to find the best way to explain the situation. Perhaps the King would excuse him, if he could present the two people as wise physicians. It was well known the King liked to surround himself with quacks and their opinions. He decided that was a plausible excuse, and once again strode more purposefully along the palace’s gloomy corridors.
Meanwhile, Saphira Le Veske, unaware that she was perceived as William’s whore, was pacing the rooms they had been put in. She began castigating Falconer for getting them into this mad situation. ‘Do you not realize that we Jews are seen as the King’s property? He has already mortgaged us once to his brother, Richard, who then taxed us to recoup his outlay. If he chose, Henry could merely demand I give him the sky-stone, and there is nothing I could do.’