by Ian Morson
‘Master Bonham, you have your ear to the door of the royal court as much as anyone.’
The little man bobbed his head faintly in seeming acknowledgement, but said not a word.
‘Prince Edward is due here shortly and I should like your opinion as to which breeze he bends with at the moment.’
Bonham paused before replying. No one, not even the chancellor, would dare say he hesitated. It was a considered pause.
‘If I truly knew what was afoot in this dangerous world at present—’
The chancellor threw his hands up to confirm that he trusted Bonham’s assessments implicitly. Bonham continued.
‘If I truly knew, and if confrontation is inevitable as I believe it is, then the prince will favour the winning side.’
De Cantilupe sighed. Why was this tedious little man so pedantic?
‘That does not help me in how to treat him when he arrives. The future of the university may depend on that.’
‘Edward is the prince, and means to be King after his father.’
‘And will he?’
Bonham clearly did not like direct questions.
‘If you treat him as his rank deserves, no one can blame you afterwards. Whoever wins.’
‘A banquet would not be inappropriate?’
Bonham treated the chancellor’s question as rhetorical and turned to leave. De Cantilupe stared at his natural tonsure as he brushed the curtain aside and returned to absently picking morsels of meat from the now cold bone.
While Falconer absently poked at his flickering fire with a stick and pondered his next step, Hugh Pett was sneaking up the alley to Beke’s Inn. He did not like what he was about to do for it taxed his loyalty to his Master. But other imperatives drove him to speak to Master John Fyssh. He stood irresolute at the door to Beke’s Inn, but it opened abruptly before him and there stood John Fyssh himself, his jowls wobbling with anger.
‘Come in before someone sees you.’
He grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him in, slamming the door behind him.
‘I saw you coming. I’ve been waiting for an age. What have you been doing?’
The words tumbled one over the other, betraying Fyssh’s anxiety.
‘It was difficult – my Master is a clever man. And then I had to wait for dark like you told me.’
Fyssh softened but did not let go of Hugh’s arm.
‘Then tell me what you discovered. Does he suspect me?’
‘No more than anyone, he said.’
‘What sort of answer is that? That tells me nothing.’
Fyssh’s eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to him.
‘Did he ask you about a book the girl had?’
Hugh flinched as Fyssh squeezed his arm harder.
‘A book? No,’ was his puzzled reply. He hardly dared ask the question that then came to his lips.
‘You didn’t really kill her, did you?’
Fyssh sniggered, then released Hugh only to begin stroking his fine hair, brushing it away from his eyes.
‘What if I did? You and I already have one little secret to keep from the rest of the world. You wouldn’t want another, would you?’
Hugh was sure it was just false bravado on the other man’s part. He could not see Fyssh as a killer. Cruel, yes, but his temperament fell short of murder. Still, he shuddered in the other’s grasp, only gradually succumbing to his touch. Leaning against his shoulder, he just wished this had all not begun in the first place. Giving in to his feelings had now resulted in him betraying the only man he truly respected. He had felt released at first, now he just felt trapped.
Chapter Nine
There was no sound from the rest of Bonham’s house, so Thomas edged along the passageway to the door at the end. It led straight into a small room lit red by the dying glow of a fire. Deep shadows were cast on the walls by a small stool and rickety table. The Master led a frugal life. A heavy wooden cupboard dominated one end of the tiny cell. Each shelf was stacked with books and papers. Thomas groaned at the thought of trying to find Margaret’s book in such a heap, but it was the best place to start. He felt sure the book, so recently acquired, would not be at the bottom of a stack, so he scanned the top few spines of each pile. Some were texts even Thomas knew – Donatus’ Ars minor, Pliny and Solinus – others were more anonymous items and seemed to be attributed to foreigners with names like Mondino and Berbuccio. Curious, Thomas took one from the top of the pile. The pages fell open naturally at the sketchy drawing of a naked male figure with text all around it. Lines led from the text to parts of the drawing, particularly the face. This was drawn in much more detail than the body, with a halo of hair. Horribly, the face was flayed of flesh as after some awful battle. The eyeballs were pulled out of their sockets and the mouth was nothing but leering teeth bereft of flesh. Thomas shuddered at such horror, and he became even more convinced of the murderous intent of the quiet little Master. He dropped the book back on the pile and continued his search. Unfortunately, the book he was seeking was not amongst these well-thumbed texts. He felt his way to the table by the fire. Perhaps the Master had been reading the book when he was called away. He looked down at the book lying open on the table and sighed in disappointment. It was too large to be the lost book. It appeared to be a book of recipes or cures. Thomas turned back to the beginning and mouthed the jumble of letters making up the title, Meddygon Myddfai.
Again it was meaningless to him – it was not even in Latin.
Another scan of the room gave him little hope of finding a hiding place for the book. Then he saw the small drawer under the lip of the table. He grasped the knob and pulled. There was something inside, wrapped in a cloth. He pulled it out – the shape was oblong, like the book. He carefully unwrapped the cloth to disclose a heavy leather case. It couldn’t be the book, unless it was inside the case. He took a deep breath and untied the strap around the case. The case fell open to reveal an array of knives of curious shapes, and some of them were bloodied.
With trembling hands Thomas retied the cord on the case, wrapped it as before in the dirty cloth and returned the bundle to the drawer, praying each moment that Bonham would not return and discover him here. With the drawer closed, the room appeared undisturbed and Thomas was about to leave when he saw the closed book on the table. Bonham had left it open and would know someone had been in the room if he returned to find it not so. But where had he left it open at? Thomas seemed to remember it was a recipe against toothache, but how would he find it again? He feverishly flicked through the book and multicoloured illustrations jumped out at him. Beasts he knew like dogs and sheep, and stranger ones he had not seen before – red dragons and giant worms. But nothing that seemed to relate to toothache. In fear of being discovered, he simply left the book open and made his escape. Surely he now had something to offer Falconer in compensation for losing the book? At the door to the lane, he hesitated then pulled it open and peered into the dark. There was no one around, so he pulled the door closed behind him and returned the way he had come, assuming Bonham would himself return from the direction of North Gate.
The following morning started bright and clear, with the grey clouds of the last few days scattered by the high winds. The watery sun hung low just over the parapet of the city walls and shone down St John’s Street into Falconer’s room. He awoke early and decided he had contained his impatience with Thomas long enough. The boy had come back very late the previous night with an urgent tale for the Master. To teach him a lesson of patience, Falconer had refused to see him, and had insisted on his going to bed in penance for being out dangerously late. The nuisance was Falconer himself was impatient to see the book, and had had to learn the same lesson imposed on the boy.
The wind roared down the chimney, scattering ashes around the room. Falconer angrily wiped the grey dust from his books on the table and left to rouse Thomas. It was not necessary. Thomas was already awake and dressed, sitting anxiously on the single
chair in the room he shared with Hugh Pett. Hugh was still abed, wrapped up against the cold currents that whistled through the door.
Before Thomas could speak, Falconer held out his hand and asked for the book given him by Hannah. Thomas hung his head and explained that he no longer had it, but that he had some other important information. Falconer simply ignored him and spun half-round in exasperation. The bright start to the day was getting dimmer.
‘You have lost the book – no doubt the crucial clue to unravelling the truths of this matter?’
‘Master Bonham took it. I could not refuse.’
Falconer grabbed Thomas’s arm and guided him firmly out of the room. At the door he threw a comment over his shoulder to the apparently somnolent Pett.
‘Let us leave noble Lord Pett to his dreams, and take the air.’
He purposely left the student’s door open, and was glad to hear a groan from within as he crossed the hall to the front door. Thomas scurried after him. In the lane, Thomas wrapped his cheap toga around him. The sun promised more warmth than the strong winds allowed. Falconer seemed oblivious to the cold, his robes flapping out behind him as he strode along. Thomas knew better than to blurt out his discovery of yesterday just yet. He already realized that Master Falconer liked to discover his own truths, or at least appear to do so. He did feel he could ask a simple question, however.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Going? Why to Master Bonham’s, of course.’
It was at that point Thomas realized he must tell Falconer the truth about his late-night exploit whatever the consequences.
And so it was that Falconer stood alone at Bonham’s door with Thomas nowhere in sight. On being admitted by Bonham, Falconer apologized for the earliness of the hour but explained that he understood Bonham had taken a book from one of his students.
‘His description aroused my curiosity. As you know, I have a weakness for puzzles. And I thought a look at it might help me place its origin.’
Bonham was about to answer when there was a thunderous knocking at his door. The little grey man pursed his lips and, excusing himself, went to the door. There was no one there. He looked angrily to the left, then squinted into the sun to his right. He could not see clearly and stepped out of the doorway, shading his eyes. The wind swirled around an empty lane – it was still so early that no one was abroad at all. He returned to his room and the early morning arrival who had stayed long enough to be invited in.
‘Some foolish student who thinks it funny to disturb me at this early hour,’ he said tartly in response to Falconer’s querying look.
‘As for the book, you are too late. It was a useless jumble of peasant calendar lore. It did well to light my fire this morning.’
He was clearly reluctant to say more, but was sure Falconer would not be so easily put off. He was therefore relieved when the normally persistent Master abruptly thanked him and hurried to leave. As the door closed on Falconer, he shook his head in sad reflection on the butterfly nature of Falconer’s mind.
As he strolled back down the lane, Falconer appeared to speak to thin air.
‘You can come out now.’
Thomas emerged from behind the buttress which had provided him with cover the night before and from where he had played his trick with Bonham’s knocker. He was grinning.
‘Did you get it?’
‘I am afraid the book eludes us at present.’
Thomas looked crestfallen.
‘However, I used your timely distraction to do something else.’
He thrust his hand into his pouch and produced a small but extremely sharp knife, still with blood on the blade.
‘You had time to take that?’ asked Thomas incredulously.
‘Barely. I was still closing the drawer when he returned.’
‘Will it prove his guilt?’
‘The Master is guilty of nothing at present. This is merely one element which will contribute to an understanding of the greater truth. If a bloodstained knife is evidence of guilt, then every man who slaughters beasts for the table is a murderer. For now, we will pursue the matter of the book in another direction.’
The town had begun to stir as they made their way back to Aristotle’s hall. There was still a feeling of sullenness in the traders as they set up shop. But the abnormality of the last few days was receding as the need to earn money grew. Passing a butcher standing at a worn and heavily scarred block, Falconer paused as the man slit the belly of a rabbit and in a few strokes deftly peeled off its pelt, leaving the red carcass. He nodded with satisfaction, apparently at the man’s skill, and continued on his way.
Meat, and its preparation, was also of concern to Thomas de Cantilupe. He needed to provide a banquet for Edward and was now learning the cost. Halegod stood before him, with the list of requirements from the cooks. The chief cook himself stood to the back of the room. Although his calling gave him an honoured position in the society of the well-to-do, it also made his presence less than desirable. De Cantilupe’s fastidious nature was repelled by the smell of animal fat. Indeed the cook’s pores seemed to drip like some roasting carcass. Halegod droned on holding the paper close to his rheumy eyes.
‘The best goose – sixpence; the best rabbit without the skin – fourpence; the best dunghill mallard – twopence; the best curlew – sixpence.’
‘Is there nothing less costly?’
Halegod scanned his list.
‘A dozen finches – one penny.’
‘I cannot serve the prince and the Black Congregation a dozen finches!’
Halegod gave the chancellor a sour look. He was clearly disappointed that, with such an opportunity for ostentation, only the regent masters of the arts – the Black Congregation – had been required to attend. The chancellor, however, had deemed it politic to steer a middle road. And expend a modest amount. It would appear that his hopes for the latter were to be dashed. De Cantilupe sighed and bowed to the inevitable.
‘Do what you think necessary. And use some students to help serve. They will do it for a good meal and save some money for me.’
He waved his servant away, who in his turn ushered the cook out ahead of him, taking care not to soil his hands on the other’s greasy garb. De Cantilupe’s hope was that all the expense would be worth it in the long run. His sympathies lay with de Montfort; the problem was, where did Edward’s lie?
The cold of the nave floor bit through Hugh’s soft boots, and he shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. The heavy pillars of St Frideswide’s seemed to press down on him, and he was on the verge of giving up when he heard the wheezing tones of Master John Fyssh. The heavy man entered by the south transept and turned towards the presbytery. He fell to his knees and bowed to the altar, his back to Hugh. He seemed bound up in prayer. Hugh nervously approached him, unsure whether to interrupt him or not. Fyssh’s mutterings abruptly changed into an insistent hiss.
‘Come, tell me what more information you have before we are discovered.’
Hugh self-consciously knelt beside him.
‘I remembered you were interested in a book when we … met last.’
‘Well?’
‘My Master seems interested in a book also. One that belonged to the dead girl.’
Hugh recalled that this church was where Margaret Gebetz had been first brought and shivered. He went on.
‘Another student had it, but it was taken from him by Master Bonham.’
‘Is that all?’ raged Fyssh as he hefted himself to his feet. ‘I have interrupted a perfectly good dinner for this morsel?’
He turned away from the boy who bowed his head in fear. In that position he did not see the smile of satisfaction on Fyssh’s face as he lumbered back down the south transept and out into the cloister.
Crossing the High Street, Falconer surprised Thomas by walking towards Jewry and not Aristotle’s hall. The boy stopped in confusion. Falconer was at the head of the main alley leading into th
e Jews’ domain before he missed Thomas. He turned and squinted in the boy’s direction.
‘Come. It is too cold to stand around. And before you ask, we are going to see your friend Hannah. She may be able to tell us something about the dead girl’s book we have not asked before. Besides,’ he added, after a short pause, ‘I have something to collect.’
Falconer saw that Thomas was puzzled, but that he brightened up at the thought of seeing the young Jewess again. The boy wiped his nose on the edge of his cloak and hurried to keep up with the great strides of his Master. Falconer led a fast pace through the twists and turns of Jewry and Thomas hurried so that he did not get lost again. The wind was less in this warren of lanes, but looking up, Falconer could still see the scudding clouds, heavy and threatening above the rooftops. The day was well on now, and other people bustled about the lanes, their heavy robes bearing the two linen stripes that marked them as the ‘King’s property’. Curious glances were cast at the boy, but Falconer was known to the community, and he returned their friendly greetings in his best effort at the Hebrew tongue. It did not surprise Thomas that Master Falconer knew that arcane language, too.
It was Hannah who responded to Falconer’s knock and a shy smile played across her lips as she invited them in. Apologizing for the absence of her father, who she said was attending to someone’s needs, she led them to the back of the house and the comfortable room which led into the kitchen. It was where Thomas had first encountered her, apart from the embarrassment in the hallway.
‘My father said you would call, and to give you this packet.’
Hannah handed a small cloth-bound bundle to Falconer, who took it gingerly, as though it were the most delicate jewellery. He could discern Thomas’s curiosity, but he was not going to open the bundle in anyone’s company. He was too embarrassed about its contents. Besides, other questions buzzed around his head like the bees in the chancellor’s garden in summer. He could not resist posing them to Hannah.