by Ian Morson
Falconer now knew he had to seek other truths. He had to admit to having been seduced by Friar Bacon's records to the exclusion of the facts before him. He tidied the stack of Bacon's precious papers and stowed them in his clothes chest on top of his meagre collection of robes. They would be undisturbed there.
His next step was to return to what he knew. His only other suspect for the murder of John Gryffin was Humphrey Segrim, who at least had been present at Oseney Abbey when the master cook had been killed. And at Wallingford Castle. The mystery accomplice dressed as a friar or monk would have to wait. He should clearly pursue the main offender. Anyway, with Fordam eliminated, Falconer had no other avenue to explore. He resolved to interview Segrim and, feeling refreshed by the possibility of a new line of investigation, resolved to do it the moment he had completed his morning lecture.
The weather was unusually mild, and Falconer chose to walk the few miles to Botley. He was heartily sick of sitting astride a horse, and knew he could revive himself with a vigorous walk across the water-meadows. Passing the walls of Oseney Abbey, he restrained the temptation to enter and enquire of Brother John about the progress on copying the Aristotle. He would be patient. Soon he was crossing the Seacourt stream at the bridge that led to Botley and Humphrey Segrim's imposing manor house. Stooping down, he cupped his hands and drank a draught of the cool water to ease the dry tickle in his throat he put down to the dust of the track. As he rose, he heard the distant bell of the abbey toll sext, the middle of the day.
The house stood on a small rise, a substantial timber-frame building sitting on solid stone, with a tower on the east side for defence. As he approached the small moat that encircled the house, he looked through the arch of the walled garden that stood beside the lane. He saw a young woman stooped over the plants, engrossed in her selection. He felt moved to stop, and as he stood in the archway, she must have become aware of his presence. She looked up and coolly returned his stare. Alas, he was too far away to see the detail of her features with his poor eyes, but her shape was more than pleasing to him. From the self-assured way she returned his gaze, he presumed she must be Segrim's wife and not a servant. He would have sought to make her acquaintance but a voice from behind broke into his thoughts.
‘Master Falconer. What do you want here?’
Falconer turned round to discover Humphrey Segrim astride a powerful horse of dimensions greater than any nag the Regent Master had ever hired. Segrim's superior manner was further emphasized by his lofty perch. But Falconer was not intimidated.
‘Could we talk about the students imprisoned at Wallingford?’
‘You'd better come inside.’
Segrim threw his response over his shoulder as he spurred the horse up the dusty lane. He didn't offer the horse's broad back to Falconer, who was obviously expected to make his own way to the house. Falconer waited for the dust to settle, and turned with a wry grin to the young woman. But she had already returned to the collecting of herbs.
The hall of Segrim's manor house was cool and gloomy after the brightness of the spring day. Shafts of light speared in from the high windows, but did not penetrate to the central hearth, where Segrim stood poking through the cold ashes with his booted foot. Falconer came straight to the point.
‘I believe you escorted the students to Wallingford.’
‘I would not say escorted. That was the duty of the King's men. I did precede them to Wallingford. On the King's business.’
‘You know that one of them is now dead, of course.’
Falconer could not tell whether the look of surprise on Segrim's face was real or feigned.
‘How did he die?’
‘He was found hanged.’
Segrim seemed to have regained his composure, and continued his careful sifting of the ashes with the toe of his boot.
‘So the young Welshman killed himself. A sure sign of guilt, I would have thought.’
‘That's what we are being led to believe.’
Falconer's remark once again caused Segrim to stop his prodding of the ashes and look with curiosity at the Regent Master. There was a movement behind Falconer, but as he turned, he saw it was just a servant scurrying about his duties. He caught himself half wishing it had been Segrim's wife. The other man continued.
‘Is that not what you believe? Not that the opinions of a Regent Master of the University have any relevance in this case.’
‘I believe what the facts tell me.’ Falconer's reply was cryptic enough to allow Segrim to believe what he wished. He seemed satisfied by the response and was about to usher Falconer out, when the Regent Master realized what Segrim had said earlier. He cursed himself for having been distracted by thoughts of the man's wife. Stopping the smooth progress to the door, he asked Segrim another question.
‘How did you know it was the Welshman who had died?’
‘The Welshman?’
‘You said the young Welshman hanged himself. I didn't tell you which student had died.’
Segrim thought for a moment.
‘I suppose I assumed it was him. When the students arrived at the castle, he was morose where the others were a disorderly bunch. They all thought that someone was going to save them, young fools. He thought otherwise, and looked on the verge of killing himself even then. I told the warden to put him in a separate cell. I didn't tell him to leave the youth with the means of taking his own life. Now you must leave. I have important visitors.’
Falconer was far from satisfied but allowed himself to be ushered back into the sunlight. Returning down the track, he stopped at the arch of the herb garden, but Segrim's wife was no longer there. On a whim he ventured through the arch and smelled the plants the woman had been picking. He crushed some rosemary to release the scent and sneezed. By chance, he was therefore out of sight when Segrim's ‘important visitors’ started arriving. It gave him the opportunity to observe them and they were a strange mixture indeed.
The first he saw was on foot, and was clearly Brother Peter Talam, the hood of his habit thrown back due to the warm weather. His curiosity piqued, Falconer resolved to hide in the garden a little longer. He brushed through the luxuriant growth of herbs and stood in the shade cast by the high, encircling wall. After a while he began to shiver, and was about to give up on his foolish idea when he heard the thunder of hooves in the lane. He stood close to the archway and strained his eyes, but the four horsemen were past too swiftly for him to be able to recognize anyone. One was fat and sat astride his mount uncomfortably, where the others were lean and used to a life in the saddle. They passed in a blur of rich colours and were no doubt men of substance, apart from one man in sober garb, whose horse strove to keep up with the others. Him aside, the men rode chargers that were large and draped in cloth emblazoned with coats of arms. Segrim was indeed moving in noble circles. There was much here to ponder on, but for now Falconer would have to return to Oxford.
Outside the wall, another pair of eyes, stronger than Falconer's, had also witnessed the comings and goings. De Beaujeu's stalking of the Regent Master was proving invaluable for many reasons.
The lady of Botley Manor had rushed from the herb garden to the kitchens with her harvest. There, she was just in time to eavesdrop on the conversation between her husband and the man who had stared so calmly at her from the archway of the walled garden. She already knew his name as Falconer, for Humphrey had called it out in the lane. Now she knew he was a Regent Master at Oxford University, and that he had a great interest in her husband's affairs. The latter meant he was of great interest to her. Perhaps they could be of mutual benefit at some point. She could not imagine, however, where the death of a student fitted in.
She waited in the kitchen until her husband led the Master out, fussing over the meal the cook was preparing. Just as she was about to enter the hall, she heard horses arriving in the courtyard, and the voice of her husband summoning the servants to take care of them. He had not told her there would be any more visitors, so she assumed this mee
ting must be a secret. Eager to learn more, she stood close behind the heavy drape that separated the kitchens from the hall. She was rewarded with an insight into the nature of the conspiracy in which her husband was involved.
Indeed she need not have hidden - he did not even look to see if they could be overheard. She pitied the other men for being linked with her husband, who clearly lacked the skill to keep a conspiracy quiet. At best he assumed his wife was too naive or dutiful to take an interest, at worst he had forgotten she was present. She risked a glance around the edge of the arras.
The group of men were huddled around the central hearth, even though there was no fire. Occasionally one would leap up and pace around, waving his arms to emphasize a point. They were all self-assured men, each wanting his own opinions to hold sway. One, tall and heavily bearded with thick silver hair, seemed to be winning the day. He was supported by a soberly dressed man who seemed out of place, a man of letters in the company of men of action.
Ann could not hear everything that was said, but what she did hear astonished her, reaching as it did beyond the shores of the realm - to the very heart of the Church in Rome. She also heard disparaging remarks made about the King, whom the group professed to serve. His obsession with the rebuilding of Westminster Abbey as a shrine to Edward the Confessor was mocked, especially as it took funds away from the purpose in hand.
‘It is said on good evidence that Henry no longer sleeps with his wife, but with the Confessor's remains at his side.’
This grisly remark from the silver-haired man had the group in fits of laughter, as did a retort from Segrim.
‘I always thought his son was a bag of bones.’
Eventually the laughter subsided, and the conversation became hushed as the men once again put their heads together over the cold hearth. Ann could hear no more, and was about to slip away to avoid discovery, when she heard the name of her husband's previous visitor. Why were they interested in Master Falconer? She risked another glance around the arras.
The soberly dressed man was speaking.
‘Leave him to me. I am sure I can convince him that you were not involved in the death at the abbey.’
The others nodded agreement and the meeting began to break up. Ann slipped quietly back into the kitchen and out through the rear door. She took deep breaths of fresh air, to rid her system of the stink of conspiracy and self-serving.
Thomas de Cantilupe was a little nervous of his meeting with Regent Master Falconer. He knew the man by reputation from stories provided by his predecessor in the Chancellorship. The man was obviously a nuisance and a freethinker, who would need to be kept under control - removed if possible, especially if de Cantilupe's higher political ambitions were to be achieved. The Chancellor- elect had been surprised and flattered when Segrim had asked him to share in secret work for the King. Indeed this involvement seemed a good first step for him towards becoming known directly to the King. His first meeting with the group of nobles at Botley Manor had gone well. To be in the company of such highly placed men as Gilbert de Clare and Bishop Aethelmar was flattering. However, he was uncertain about the noble lords' irreverent attitude to Henry. And he sometimes felt that unspoken messages were passing from one member of the group to another, which specifically left him out. Still, he reasoned that he would have to prove himself to them before he was taken fully into their confidence.
Perhaps that was why he was wary of Master Falconer. This was his first test as a valuable member of the clique. If Falconer was intent on pursuing the question of the death in the Papal Legate's entourage, he would ensure he did not waste time badgering people who were serving the King. The matter was silly anyway. Was it not obvious that the unfortunate Welshman had killed the man? Better still, he should stop Falconer wasting his time on any sort of investigation, now and in the future. The man had plenty to occupy him teaching students.
Falconer was wondering what the new Chancellor was going to be like. With his predecessor, he had been able to avoid any censure despite his constant involvement in various ‘little problems’. At Chancellor's Court, the old man had it within his powers to banish Falconer beyond the limits of the town, or to fine him, either of which would have been ruinous. Usually, the Regent Master's persistent justification of his actions had resulted in the Chancellor being grateful to get Falconer out of his sight and the range of his ears. Now he would have to learn how to conduct himself with this new man, who was not yet even installed as Chancellor.
He was led into de Cantilupe's presence by Halegod, the same old, stooped figure who had served the previous Chancellor - and no doubt the Chancellor before him, judging from his wrinkled face and rheumy eyes. He seemed to be a permanent fixture, along with the fading tapestries that kept out the draughts from the Chancellor's private rooms.
De Cantilupe sat behind a large trestle table spread with the remains of his dinner. He was fond of good food and wine, though in other matters he was an ascetic, and had not allowed his hurried return to Oxford and summoning of Falconer to delay his repast. He fingered the crumbs of his trencher, and absently popped a lump into his mouth. He could still taste the rich, spicy stew he had sopped up with the bread. He decided to stay seated where he was and spread his hands, palms down, on the table in what he fondly imagined to be a posture of power.
From behind the table he surveyed the large, rangy man in front of him. He was clad in a worn clerical robe which had once been black, but now had faded to dark green. The man's bony hands protruded from his sleeves which ended in frayed edges several inches above his wrists. His weather- beaten face was topped with grizzled hair. He was most unlike the average Regent Master who was either young and fresh-faced, or old and pasty-looking, What was more startling were the man's eyes. They were pale, cornflower blue and seemed to pierce to de Cantilupe's soul. He shifted on his seat.
For Falconer's part, he saw a thin-visaged man whose face was dominated by a hooked Roman nose that split it into two. His flushed, veiny cheeks suggested a fondness for the wines of France, and the scattered remains of a prodigious meal in front of him betokened a man who accompanied his wine with good food. The eyes that surveyed him were hooded, and burned with naked ambition. Falconer looked forward to a good contest with a worthy adversary.
De Cantilupe found himself rising to meet the other man, as though drawn to him as an equal. Irritated at his involuntary act, he nevertheless gave in to the inevitable and circled the table, picking up a large flagon as he did so. He called out to Halegod to bring another wine cup. If the man could not be faced down with authority, de Cantilupe would win him over with comradeship. He poured himself a generous draught of the Guienne, and took the other cup from Halegod who had scuttled into the room, startled at de Cantilupe's unaccustomed generosity with his best wine. He poured out the rest of the wine and handed it to Falconer, motioning him into a chair on the opposite side of the unlit fireplace. He sat in the other chair which was artfully placed to avoid draughts from both door and window. The evening was overcast, and the unglazed windows furnished no light, only a blast of air that shifted the ashes in the fireplace in circular patterns. De Cantilupe was clad in several layers of clothes, including a hair shirt that offered warmth as well as the discomfort of humility. He knew the other chair provided his guests with an icy sensation from the feet up. No one could tell whether that came from his lofty presence or from the winds that blew through the Chancellor's residence. Feeling more in control of the meeting, he settled himself down, took a deep swig of good Guienne and made inconsequential enquiries about Falconer's students.
Falconer waited for the opening salvo, knowing the pleasantries the Chancellor-elect was offering were only the preliminaries. Seeing the man lean forward in his seat, he knew the important point had been reached. He could not even look Falconer in the eye - the matter must be serious.
Gazing deep into his empty wine cup, de Cantilupe broached the subject of the murder.
‘I have heard that you have in
volved yourself in unexplained deaths in the city in the past.’
Falconer merely acknowledged the fact with a stare.
‘I can understand your keenness to demonstrate the application of logic to practical matters. But isn't murder rather a mundane affair, best left to those of a ...’ He paused, seeking the right word. ’... physical bent? Logic should be utilized in the resolution of more lofty issues.’
‘Such as how the first Eucharist was celebrated while Christ's body was in the grave,’ snorted Falconer.
De Cantilupe was shocked at the Regent Master's scorn of a crucial religious debate. Nevertheless, he pursued his main point.
Take the matter of the unfortunate Welshman. It is clear he shot the arrow that killed the Bishop's brother. It is equally clear he took his own life in remorse. What more is there to say on the subject?’
Falconer seized the opening that the incautious Chancellor had given him.
‘There is much to seek out, and then more to say. There would have been little to say if the Welshman had indeed hanged himself. But the truths tell me otherwise. John Gryffin was murdered, and so I must ask myself why. Not by the authorities that held him. So, by whom? We could assume an accomplice to the first murder from amongst the other students. One who wished to save his own neck. But then, why was he killed after the students had been separated? So much easier to arrange his apparent suicide while he occupies the same cell than when there are two locked doors between you and your victim.’
Falconer leaned forward eagerly, finding his own thoughts clarifying as he spoke. The Chancellor-elect sat gloomily in his seat, unable to stop the flow, and realizing his words had had the opposite effect to that he desired.
‘No, the Welshman's murder confirms the existence of an accomplice, or perhaps a controlling hand. And it would have to be someone outside the circle of students. Someone with a greater reason to kill the Bishop than his laughing about a scalded beggar. It becomes a grander matter, concerning the papal power and succession. And involves grander men than a few ragged students. I begin to wonder at whose behest the arrow was let fly. Who was present at the death of both the Bishop's brother and John Gryffin?