Unperturbed, Falconer lounged comfortably on the cushions that adorned the outer room. He was unused to such luxury, but he thought he could come to like this life. He felt like a perfumed Saracen in his harem and waved a dismissive hand at Saphira. ‘But there is no problem there. You gave the stone to me as a gift. So it is mine to dispose of as I wish. Not yours.’
Saphira stooped over him, poking his chest with an elegant finger. ‘So you value my gift so slightly that you would give it away without a second thought?’
Falconer grabbed her outstretched arm and pulled her to him, laughing. ‘I could always offer you as my gift to the King.’
Saphira pushed him away in horror. ‘Don’t even jest, William.’
Their situation did not seem to worry William, but she was frightened that there might be spies in every dark corner in this palace, listening to their every word. Falconer, realizing he had overstepped the mark, sat up. ‘No, you are right. The situation is serious. It does occur to me, though, that you might use some of your expert knowledge of medicines. Mix him a potion. You might even make the King grateful to at least one Jew for prolonging his life.’
Saphira paled at the idea. ‘And if he should die after taking my potion?’
Falconer’s face creased in a frown. ‘You are right again, and I am a fool. I should not have subjected you to this ordeal. I was being selfish in not wishing to be away from your company for any length of time.’
She hugged him and gave a throaty laugh, which promised much for later. But their private moment was disturbed, however, by a quiet cough. Standing in the doorway was a tall man with a regal bearing and long, well-coiffed locks. Falconer and Saphira stood up, a little embarrassed at being discovered embracing. The distinguished-looking man introduced himself.
‘I am Sir Thomas Dalyson, chamberlain to the King. John Zellot has told me something of the situation, and who you are. Do you have the stone with you?’
Falconer spoke up. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then give it to me, and you can be on your way.’
Dalyson clearly hoped that his deliberately peremptory manner would cow this Oxford master, but he was wrong. He saw the grizzle-haired man bristle at the crude dismissal, his face turning stony. ‘No. I told your envoy, Zellot, that I would present it to the King myself. If he did not pass on this stipulation, then you should punish him for his dereliction of duty. But I will see the King myself.’
Dalyson realized how much he had misjudged the master and swiftly changed course. ‘I am sorry. I was misled by Zellot. Of course you may see the King. And Mistress-’ he racked his brain for the woman’s name, told him by Zellot ‘-Le Veske also. Come.’
Saphira cast a fearful glance at William, but he grasped her hand firmly and picked up the stone from where it lay beside him on the bed. Together, they followed Dalyson out of the room.
The King was struggling to breathe, and his doctors were clustered around him anxiously. The fear of wrongly prescribing a cure in such extreme circumstances made the three men nervous of suggesting anything radical. The herbalist, John Rixe, broke the impasse of their worried discussions with a bold suggestion.
‘I recommend a tincture of lungwort with thyme and liquorice root.’
Master Roger Megrim hooted in derision. ‘Lungwort? That will have the effect of a fleabite in an ox’s back.’ He poked a long, bony finger at their patient. ‘Can’t you see His Majesty is far beyond lungwort?’
The King’s face turned an ashen grey, and he began gasping for air as if he were on the verge of drowning. Brother Mark frowned deeply. He crossed himself and put on his most solemn face. ‘His Majesty is beset by demons. He must embark on a pilgrimage to Saint Madron’s Well, for he is a saint who cures all pain.’
It was John Rixe’s turn to question the proposition from the Dominican monk. ‘And where is Saint Madron’s Well, pray?’
‘Cornwall.’
The herbalist and the erudite Cambridge master both burst out laughing. It was left to Megrim, once he could contain himself, to once again point out the error of the proposal. ‘His Majesty is near to dying, and you propose to drag him hundreds of miles down roads no better than farm tracks, and across the wastes of Bodmin Moor? You will kill him for sure.’
By now none of the three physicians was taking note of the state of their patient, intent as they were on sniping at each other. Henry’s breathing was becoming ever more wheezy, and his heart was pounding like a hammer in one of those newfangled iron workings. His vision became blurred, and the faces of his physicians swam before him in a red mist.
Unaware of the plight of the King, Megrim finally threw his cap into the ring. With sonorous tones, he laid out the scientific approach to cure as he saw it. ‘The very latest writings of Albertus Magnus extol the virtues of magnetic stones, and lodestones are a cure for melancholy. This is what the King is suffering from — an excess of phlegm and melancholy. Powdered lodestone and milk will alleviate the symptoms of melancholy. Or he will surely die.’
Just as he reached this conclusion, and before his colleagues and rivals could comment, the bedchamber door opened. Sir Thomas Dalyson stepped into the room and, seeing the parlous state of King Henry, rushed to his master’s side. For the first time, the three doctors noted that Henry was sinking fast. Indecision froze them in place, and they watched in consternation as the red-haired female who had followed Dalyson into the room, along with a tall, grey-haired man, took some action. She called out to the attendant she had passed in the corridor to bring some beer.
‘A large tankard. Now, if you please.’
Then she turned her attentions to the King, abruptly grasping his thin and chilly hand. She patted it reassuringly while everyone else looked on in horror at her temerity. This unknown woman had touched the King. Something none of his physicians had ever done. She spoke in soft and comforting tones.
‘Majesty, you are just panicked by these men. Drinking deep will slow your breathing and you will feel better. I assure you. Here.’
Ralph Wardroper entered and passed a large pewter tankard of ale to her. She helped Henry to sit up and held it to his lips. He took a sip then, encouraged by Saphira, he drank deeply in great gulps. She laughed.
‘Steady, Majesty.’
He looked her in the eyes, his heart already slowing. He felt he had escaped death and grinned mischievously. ‘I should have long ago had a nursemaid as pretty as you. Instead, I have these three gargoyles.’
Hiding a brief look of outrage, Megrim, Rixe and Brother Mark forced courteous smiles on their faces and bowed low at the King’s comment. Saphira, who could not help but note the animosity hidden by their smiles, suddenly realized that she sat on the King of England’s bed. And that she was holding his hand. Her face turned pale, and Falconer, seizing the moment, stepped forward. He helped the stricken woman rise to her feet.
‘Majesty, I have something you have been looking for.’
He brought his left hand from behind his back and produced a dark stone in the shape of a ship. Henry’s eyes glittered. ‘Is this it? The sky-stone?’
‘Yes, sire.’
Falconer proffered the stone and placed it in Henry’s outstretched fingers, making sure the King didn’t drop the unusually heavy object as he took it. Henry sighed deeply.
‘The sacred stone.’
Falconer turned around at the sound of the resonant voice that had spoken the words. It had not been the voice of the King. In the doorway stood a stocky, powerful man in the garb of a senior cleric of the Church. Pierre de Montbrun, Bishop of Narbonne, strode into the room. Falconer could not help but see the glitter in the dark pools that were the Frenchman’s eyes as he gazed at the sky-stone. Both Saphira and Falconer looked with renewed curiosity at the stone that now lay in King Henry’s frail hands. They had heard of its claimed healing properties, but not that the established Church should see it as sacred. Falconer’s interest was piqued, and he looked around the room. Everyone was staring at the stone, from the King down to his most lowly servant, who had brought the jug of ale. All perhaps saw something different in it, and it was something as a man of science he could not see. Hope. A cure. Deliverance.