by Ian Morson
‘Take the scroll in the angel's hand, and eat it. Take and eat it. Although it will taste honeyed in your mouth, it will feel bitter in your stomach.’
Weakly, Falconer allowed the scroll to be placed in his mouth. At first it tasted sweet, but as it slid down to his stomach he felt a sour taste overwhelming the first sensation. He fell back and slept.
In his dreams he saw a hugely pregnant woman, robed in sparkling colours that resembled the sun and stars. She floated in the sky as though she weighed nothing, yet her stomach was distended with the child she screamed to deliver. Into the edge of Falconer's vision swam another portent. It was a great red dragon with seven heads on long thin necks that weaved in and out of each other. Each head was topped with horns that threatened to pierce the distended flesh of the gravid woman. Each beastly head drooled and slavered in anticipation of the birth, for the dragon clearly aimed to devour the new-born. But at the moment of the birth the hand of God scooped up the mewling child, still covered in its mother's fluids, and set it at his right hand. The several heads of the dragon roared in anguish at their lost prey, one chewing at the neck of its neighbour. Foul gobbets of blood and flesh flew across the sky, spattering on to Falconer's face. He recoiled in horror, and woke up.
He was kneeling in a crowd of worshippers before a stone altar. Around him everyone was chanting in low tones that he could not understand. The mood was sombre, and he raised his eyes to the priest who stood before the altar with his back to the congregation. The priest seemed to loom large over the kneeling worshippers and was raising a chalice over his head. Falconer felt a sense of foreboding, and could not tear his gaze from the priest as he turned towards the crowd. The man's head was riven with a jagged, suppurating wound, as though it had been cleaved by a massive axe. And what a face it was beneath the wound. There was nothing human about it at all - it was the face of the Beast. Falconer felt his arms being bound to his side as the fiendish congregation pressed around him, their hot, foetid breath on his neck and cheeks. The Beast advanced on him holding out a cat-like paw instead of a hand. A viciously sharp claw flicked out as Falconer's head was pulled back, exposing his pulsing neck. As he felt the prick of the claw upon his flesh, he heard the sound of heavenly voices in prayer, and his eyes flicked open.
At first he thought he was dead and in the presence of God. For the face that hovered over him resembled that of Peter Bullock, and he remembered his earlier encounter with God, bearing the constable's face. Then he saw the face split with a worldly grin, and realized he was back in the land of the living. Nervously he cast about the room in which he lay, half-expecting it to dissolve into another nightmare. But it remained stubbornly solid, and the voice of Peter Bullock was reassuringly normal.
‘I see you are with us once again.’
Chapter Fourteen
The Austins found you at the doors of their abbey. You were raving and feverish. They said you had the ague and were as likely to die as recover. That's why they brought you here.’
‘Bullock sat beside the low truckle bed on which lay a weakened and exhausted Falconer. They were in one of the cubicles in St John's Hospital outside East Gate. The plain wooden screening around the bed finished just above head height, and beyond it Falconer could make out one of the arched trusses that supported the lofty ceiling. The upper reaches of the hall were lost in darkness, and the walls of the cubicle pressed in on Falconer like the sides of a coffin. There was a smell of vomit and stale sweat that he felt sure was not all his own. As if in confirmation, a low-pitched groaning came from the cubicle to his left.
Bullock saw the direction of Falconer's gaze.
‘The half-dead disease,’ he murmured. Falconer shook his head sadly, knowing of the evil, slippery humour that rendered one side of the body powerless and turned the face into a distorted mask. It came mostly to those of fuller years - fifty or more - but sometimes attacked younger men. Not many recovered from it, and those who did were often useless creatures shuffling through their miserable life. Though he had only just awoken, he decided he would be glad to be out of this depressing place.
He tried to sit up but fell back exhausted. Bullock urged him to rest as he had been at death's door only a few hours before. It was now night, and Falconer had been in the grip of the ague for almost two days. Bullock explained that he had been at Falconer's bedside most of that time - and when he wasn't, Ann Segrim had played the role of an angel of mercy. Recalling some of the horror of his nightmares, Falconer knew that she had indeed been an angel in his fevered brain. He thought he might reserve for another time the revelation of his vision of Peter Bullock as the face of God.
‘Two days!’
Falconer was suddenly aware of what Bullock had just said. The accursed fever had wasted too much time, just when he was anxious to put his deductive work to the ultimate test. He needed to take action now. But he was so feeble that lifting his head was like hefting a ponderous rock at arm's length, and brought him out in a sweat. He would need Bullock's help. And that of a few others too.
‘You said that Mistress Segrim was here?’
‘Yes, she wanted to talk to you the day you disappeared, remember?’
’And I went to see her.’
‘Well, she was in town for the market yesterday and went to Aristotle's to seek you out again. Young Hugh Pett told her you were ill, and where you were.’
Bullock's face split in a salacious grin.
‘You clearly exercise a powerful influence over the lady. She was most concerned at your state. Even helped to wipe your fevered brow, and encouraged you to take some of the medicine the apothecary prepared.’
Falconer half-recalled the scroll that God in his dream had encouraged him to eat, and the bitter aftertaste rose in his gorge again. The memory was sweetened by the thought that Mistress Ann had been seeking him. After their talk in the herb garden, there could be no more urgent information for her to impart. She must have been seeking him out for his own sake. His fevered mind rapidly constructed an imagined courtship - the knowledge that she was married, and to Humphrey Segrim, was but a minor complication. But first he must solve the mystery of the murders. How could he bring matters to a head, when he was so enfeebled and not able even to rise from his sickbed?
Falconer realized Bullock was still speaking.
‘I'm sorry, my friend, what did you say?’
‘That she has left her servant to wait on your recovery, so that she might be informed as soon as possible that you were out of danger. Or that you were dead,’ he added cheerily.
The first light of a new dawn filtered through the blood- red glass in the high arched window of the main hall of the hospital. Its rays crept across the dark stained-wood panels of Falconer's cubicle like blood dribbling from an ethereal creature, the vital fluids of some ghostly being that might have escaped from Falconer's apocalyptic nightmare. A quiet smile crossed his strained and pale features.
‘You said that I have been in a stupor for two days. What does that make today?’
Bullock had to ponder on that question. To him the days ran one into the next. As a child he had worked as a farm labourer and the hours of the day were regulated by the rising and setting of the sun, the year by the seasons of growth and harvesting. Even as a soldier, his time had been ordered by the seasons, for no one wanted to fight through rain and mud. Now in this crowded city of souls who earned their living by exercising only their minds, natural cycles were unimportant. Masters and students lived a life divorced from the real world he had known, following an artifice of time that split days into hours. Terce, sext and nones were for quibbling monks and masters. But each day he grew more like them and away from his past. He shrugged and calculated in his head.
The last day of the month of March.’
‘Good, I am not too late, then.’
‘For what?’
Falconer ignored his question and, clasping his hands together behind his head, leaned back in triumph on the sweat-soaked mattress
.
‘You must go to Aristotle's Hall. In the chest in my room you will find a bundle of papers. Bring me the top one. No, bring me them all, then I can be sure I have the one I want.’
Bullock rose to go, his limbs cracking from having sat so long. But Falconer, staring into space, continued to give his instructions.
‘After that you must ask old Richard de Sotell something.’
Bullock was puzzled. ‘The Friar-Senior of the Dominicans?’
‘The same. He must arrange for our good ranting Friar Fordam to come to my bedside. And it must be before terce tomorrow - the time is vital. Then send Mistress Ann's servant to me. I want him to take a message of more than my good health to her.’
Humphrey Segrim rose late that morning feeling particularly cheerful. He felt sure that his little game with Master Falconer had proved effective. It had been a risk, because he had not told his co-conspirators, who he felt sure would not have agreed to his actions. In their high circles, someone in Falconer's position was like a horse-fly causing their mount to rear and plunge. The simple, effective solution was to swat it mightily out of existence. When Chancellor- to-be de Cantilupe had failed them, their limited patience with the subtle approach had run out. They were all for killing the Regent Master, with his bothersome buzzing around the flanks of their plotting. And Segrim knew whose task it would have been to arrange the killing - if not to carry it out personally. That was fine for those nobles, who travelled around the country following the royal progress of their monarch and living off the fat of other people's land. He had to live in the vicinity of Oxford, and the death of a Regent Master, even one so vexatious as William Falconer, would stir up endless trouble.
No, he was glad he had put Falconer off the scent in such a spectacular way. After all, who could question the word of the King of England? He yawned and, idly scratching his chest through the heavy cloth of his nightgown, crossed to the window that overlooked the courtyard of his manor house. The sun was well up, and he was pleased to see his servants scurrying around the yard ensuring everything was arranged for the comfortable progress of their master through the day. He spotted his wife's personal manservant, Sekston, hurrying up the track from the direction of Oxford. He wondered where the man had been so early, and recalled he had not seen him around the previous day when Ann had returned from the Oxford market. She had seemed agitated over something, and had closed her door on him. Not wishing to destroy his good mood, he had turned to the company of a fine wine from Poitou rather than a sour wife.
Now Sekston was crossing the courtyard towards the front door, and Segrim pressed his face against the diamond shapes of the window glass to see who he was going to speak to. He could just make out the top of his wife's head as she took a few paces down the front steps. Sekston spoke earnestly, then turned away to carry on with his normal tasks. If Segrim had been able to see more than the top of his wife's head, he would have seen the look of relief and joy on her face caused by the news from St John's Hospital.
He was once again confronted by the pregnant woman. She swam before his eyes, alluring in all her gravid beauty. The scent of her glowing body assailed his nostrils and he felt a stirring in his loins. As she turned her head towards him, he realized it was Ann Segrim. Damp strands of hair stuck to her brow, and her face was flushed. She was holding his hand firmly in hers, and squeezing it each time a spasm wracked her stomach. Suddenly the smile of joy fell from her features, as she looked over his shoulder. He felt the fiery breath on his neck, and knew without looking that the evil dragon was behind him - a demon with Humphrey Segrim's face. He felt the icy claw of the monster resting on his bare arm.
Waking with a start, he saw the incongruously cheery face of John Darby hovering over him. Falconer cast an anxious glance around the cubicle, fearful that the solid wood of the panelling would dissolve into another nightmare. Darby's face bore a look of puzzlement and anxiety mixed.
‘I was told you were recovered, but you still seem far from well. Perhaps I should go.’
Falconer grasped the dry, cold hand that still lay across his arm, glad it was fleshy and not made of scales and claws.
‘No, stay. It was just a bad dream.’
He drew himself up out of the clammy coverings and leaned against the wooden wall. From the angle of the light cast through the window, he deduced that he had slept well into the afternoon.
‘What brings you here?’
‘Concern for a friend, of course. But I do have something to show you that might improve your spirits.’
He dug his hands into a large leather satchel at his feet and drew out a heavy tome. The cords binding it were neatly executed, and the leather casing was fresh and shiny. The pleasant smell of it aroused the curiosity of the Regent Master. Darby turned it reverently in his hands so that the front cover faced Falconer. He smiled and took it from the monk.
‘Open it.’
Falconer did so in anticipation, and the pages crackled with newness. He read the opening sheaf with its lovingly hand-inscribed, illuminated letters.
‘De Partibus Animalium. It's my text of Aristotle, but I did not ask for it to be bound.’
‘A gift from me. You will find the main text is executed legibly, if a little plainly. Brother Adam is skilful but not an artist. I thought to improve it myself with an opening page. And then it demanded to be bound.’
Darby had obviously intended to please Falconer with his embellishments. The Regent Master did not have the heart to explain that the accuracy of the text was all he desired, and thanked him for his efforts.
‘I will cherish it as the outward sign of a good friendship.’
The rosy-cheeked monk added a blush to his already rubicund features, and bent down to remove the original of the copied text from his satchel. Unlike its copy, this book was worn and old, the cover cracked from excessive use. He passed it over to Falconer, and out of curiosity asked where the text came from that Falconer so prized.
‘The rabbi Jehozadok. It is a text taken directly from the Greek, without it filtering through half a dozen other languages. Have you read it? There's a fascinating section on how sharks roll over on their backs to eat. The shark is a fish, you know . ’
Falconer hesitated when he saw the frown on the monk's face. His own enthusiasm for Aristotle and scientific study of the world often made him forget that others deemed such observation an affront to God. Perhaps Brother John felt so, or perhaps he disapproved of Falconer's friendship with a Jew. He hoped it was not the latter. The awkward silence was broken by another voice.
‘You are tiring Master Falconer. I suggest you leave now.’
The doorway of the little cubicle was filled with the tall figure of another monk. Brother Peter Talam's stern rebuke caused Darby to throw an amused look heavenwards. He picked up his satchel from the floor and silently bowed out of the room, casting a conspiratorial wink at Falconer over Talam's shoulder as he left. Brother Peter waited patiently for Darby to leave before he spoke.
‘You are still far from well, so I have brought you a remedy. I prepared it myself.’
From the voluminous sleeve of his habit he produced a small, stoppered flask and bent over the prostrate Falconer. The bright and staring look in his eyes filled William with unease. The monk uncorked the flask and held it out imperiously.
‘You must drink it now.’
Falconer took the flask hesitantly and sniffed the brew. It smelled foul, as though some small creature had crawled into the flask to die - a long time ago. He recoiled, but the firm hands of Talam clasped his and pressed the flask up to his lips. The monk nodded in encouragement, as Falconer's mind raced to find a way to avoid drinking the potion. He was too weak to fight off the monk on his own. He could think of no excuse, and the cold rim of the flask was at his mouth. Visions of the Last Judgement flashed through his mind, and he gagged at the merest taste of the brew as it touched his tongue. The monk's grip relaxed for a moment and Falconer coughed chestily.
; ‘That smells awful. No wonder it is making you cough.’
The constable's voice cut through the tension in the room, and Falconer offered up a silent prayer at the return of Peter Bullock. He carefully pushed the flask and its contents away from his lips.
‘I must ask you to leave us alone, Brother Talam. I have a confidential matter to discuss with the constable.’
The tall monk straightened up, towering over the prostrate Falconer. There was a thunderous look in his eyes as he stared at the Regent Master, and he carefully pressed the cap into the neck of the flask.
‘I will return later, then.’
Pushing angrily past Bullock, he stormed out of the little cubicle. Both men could hear his sandalled feet slapping on the stone floor of the hospital as he retreated. Falconer glanced up at the questioning look on the face of his old comrade.
‘I will explain it all later. Now give me the papers.’
Bullock offered the battered bundle of documents he had removed from the chest in Falconer's room at Aristotle's Hall. To him they were an unimpressive pile of tattered pages, even though he was normally in awe of any learned texts. Reading was not his strong point, and any words that were inscribed on paper must be powerful. But some of this writing was on tiny scraps with every inch of the surface covered in lines and spirals of words. Perhaps their power lay in the symbols they formed, and the hidden meanings they foretold. Certainly Falconer was handling them reverently as if they were some necromancer's lodestone.
Bullock sat on the side of the bed as Falconer shuffled through the papers and drew from the cord binding them one which he held closely to his eyes. He read it carefully, turning it towards the light that now edged higher and higher up the panelled wall as the day drew on. If he had remembered the text correctly, he had precious little time left. Then he saw it and mumbled excitedly to himself, tracing his finger along the sentence written by Roger Bacon in some Franciscan prison of a cell far away in France.