Falconer's Crusade

by Ian Morson

  It was now vital for Falconer to be able to see what his main suspects were doing. Around him, the seated figures merged into a sea of dark robes spotted with pink blurs that were their faces. It was hopeless – he could not distinguish the person a few feet away let alone anyone at the other end of the hall. He fumbled in the pouch at his waist and withdrew the cloth-wrapped bundle Hannah had given him. Carefully unwrapping the parcel, he extracted a device that old Samson had made specially for him. The light angling in through the high windows above him sparkled on two crystal circles embedded in metal. Each circle was at one end of a v-shape also made in metal. Falconer selfconsciously held the point of the v against his forehead with the circles of glass over each eye. The hall and its occupants swam into remarkable focus. He realized that if he looked out of the corner of his eye, the straight edge of the table curved to the same degree as the lens. However, by steadfastly gazing forward and turning his head, Falconer was able to see as clearly as he had as a boy.

  His companions either side gave him a curious glance but everyone else seemed busy talking to their neighbour. The noise was worse than that coming from a bunch of unruly students awaiting a lecture. Falconer swivelled on his bench and saw that Bonham was at the table on the opposite side of the hall facing him. He was already deep in conversation with the person to his right, who, by the look on his face, was being treated to a typically pedantic lecture from the little man. Falconer was glad he was not trapped next to him. Nearer the high table, but with his back to Falconer, sat Fyssh, his rich surcoat standing out in the sea of more sober garb. His fat backside spilled copiously over the bench.

  At first Falconer could not find de Stepyng. Then he leaned forward across the table and looked hard to his right. He discerned the hawk nose of de Stepyng only three or four places away from him. He was staring sourly into space. The main protagonists were in place – would their behaviour reveal anything of value? Falconer had been optimistic with young Thomas, but had to admit to himself that he was entirely unsure what he expected to happen. He simply needed more facts, however trivial they may seem on their own. Friar Bacon would have reminded him of the need for scientific observation in all matters.

  He became aware of the increasingly curious gaze of the Master sitting to his right, and realized he still sat with one fist held to his forehead and the odd device over his eyes. Reluctantly he returned to the world of blurred vision, dropping the lenses into his lap for immediate retrieval. He treated the offending Master to one of his unnerving glares; the Master coughed nervously and deliberately began a conversation with an elderly regent master sitting on the opposite side to Falconer.

  A blaring trumpet in the gallery above everyone’s head proclaimed the arrival of the guest of honour.

  Chapter Eleven

  Prince Edward presented a robust figure as he strode on to the dais followed by the chancellor. His long legs, clad in shining decorative greaves, carried him easily to the table. His upper body was draped with a blue tabard emblazoned with three yellow lions. He stopped beside the ornate chair at the centre of the high table, and scanned the gathered throng of Masters. His drooping left eyelid somehow conveyed an air of friendly complicity. Turning to put a powerful arm on the chancellor’s shoulder, it was clear he was a head taller than de Cantilupe. A circlet topped his long raven locks – he was every inch a leader of men.

  The tense silence in the hall was broken by a quiet laugh from Edward’s lips. That and the words he spoke to the chancellor, causing him to smile, gave every indication that he and the university were in accord. He dropped gracefully into his seat and a ripple ran down the hall as regent masters breathed out in relief and sat down. Falconer quickly raised the device to his eyes and scanned the crowd again. Everyone was still in place and he relaxed a little. He could not help but be impressed by Edward, and could understand how his plausible nature would win men over. How different he seemed from his apparently weak and easily led father, the King. Even his physical size was greater than Henry’s, though they shared the same oddity of a drooping eyelid. With the lenses held to his eyes, he surveyed the prince as he leaned across and spoke to de Cantilupe. They were clearly two men of power who had found something to share.

  As Edward leaned back in his chair, the chancellor waved his hand and the ceremony of the feast began. One of the kitchen staff came forward and tasted the bread and salt laid out on the high table. Next a youth with a great pitcher of water came forward – Falconer knew this too would have been tasted to avoid suspicion of poison. Edward washed his hands and dried them on a towel. He was followed in this ceremony by the chancellor, and more perfunctorily by everyone down the hall, served by young students. Falconer was nudged from behind by the server bringing his water, and turned to reprimand the clumsy individual. The mischievous face of Thomas Symon confronted him.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the others,’ Falconer hissed, ‘I am not under suspicion here.’

  Blushing, Thomas hurried away to the kitchens to assist in serving the food, and Falconer smiled at his discomfiture.

  Back in the kitchen, the cook fussed lining up the students who were his servitors at the feast and passing them the dishes on which lay the first course. Glassy-eyed pike swam before Thomas’s gaze as the platters of fish were passed out. As he stood at the back of the line, he was entrusted with the other part of the first course. This was some indistinguishable dark-skinned fowl, which nevertheless smelled so aromatic as to make Thomas’s mouth water. Along the line of food-laden boys scurried an old man dressed up in a stiff blue robe and waving a thin wand. He reviewed the ranks as though they were troops, then stood at their head and nodded to the cook. Halegod had taken the role of steward for his own, revelling in the ceremony and attention. The cook peered round the kitchen doors and a second flurry of trumpeting sounded out in the main hall. The meal was to begin.

  Thomas saw that he could keep an eye on both Bonham and Fyssh if he stationed himself at the top of the long table opposite Falconer. Another youth was making his way there, so Thomas bustled past him, almost tipping over the other’s tray of food. Startled, the youth began to shout a protest, but the stern gaze of Halegod, who had missed Thomas’s manoeuvre, stopped him. Thomas began to serve the dark meat which had already been sliced in the kitchen. Serving from the middle of the hall, he had to lean over the table to put food on the trenchers of those who sat facing him. Gradually he worked his way towards Fyssh who sat with his back to Thomas. Leaning over his shoulder, he strove to hear what Fyssh might be saying to his neighbour and was disappointed to hear him denigrating the chancellor’s supply of wine.

  ‘Of course, the man keeps the best wines for himself – good French wines from Poitou and Guienne – and serves us concoctions manufactured by his butler. Then he has the nerve to call himself an ascetic. Him and his hair shirt indeed.’

  Thomas moved quickly on to Bonham, who faced him across the table. He served him the last slivers of the fowl, and stared at him as though he could shame the man into a public confession of murder. Thomas was still convinced of his guilt. Bonham merely stared blankly back, as though he did not recall that Thomas was the youth from whom he had taken the all-important book.

  From the other side of the hall, Falconer could just discern that Thomas was moving close to his quarry. He raised the lenses to his eyes in time to see the boy staring brazenly at Bonham. That was not what he had told him to do. Had he not said that he wanted Thomas to observe discreetly? Nor was he watching what he was doing with his heavy serving plate of duck. Falconer watched in exasperation as Thomas became the centre of attention by tipping the last remnants off his plate all over the Master sitting opposite Bonham. There was an uproar, studiously ignored by the high table, and Halegod arrived to whip Thomas back into the kitchen.

  ‘You are the clumsiest oaf I have ever come across,’ railed the old man. ‘You will stay in the kitchen and assist the cook.’

  Thomas began to protest, but Hal
egod stopped him with a raised palm.

  ‘Just imagine what would have happened if you had tipped food over the prince.’

  As he stalked off, Thomas realized he had indeed been so absorbed in his errand for Falconer that he had forgotten to sneak a look at Prince Edward. He had been a few feet away from the man who should become King of England and had not seen him. He had also ruined his chance of observing his Master’s suspects in the murder hunt. He sank on his haunches by the fire and stared gloomily into the flames.

  Falconer too was consumed by gloom. So far nothing had happened that might confirm the murderer’s identity for him. The first course was complete, and Falconer’s only observation was that de Stepyng had picked at both fish and fowl, seeming ill at ease. Between the first and second courses the cook had occasioned audible approval by serving a subtlety – several sugary representations of swans which hardly survived the expression of approval before they were torn apart by sweet-toothed regent masters. Only Thomas would have known they were second best for the cook, who had mourned not being able to prepare the real bird. The next course was now being served – an aromatic stew, ladled thick and hot on to new trenchers.

  As a boy came to serve de Stepyng, who was noticeably more agitated as time progressed, the sallow-faced Master arose from his seat, almost knocking the ladle from the servitor’s hand. There was a momentary silence into which de Stepyng’s voice cut sharply.

  ‘I cannot share meat with the child of a tyrant, who himself supports tyranny.’

  The words were spoken pointedly to the high table, then de Stepyng turned and coolly walked out of the great hall, a sea of shocked faces following him. The silence was broken by the prince.

  ‘Earl Simon is welcome to those with poor digestion, and poor judgement.’

  The laughter following that remark was not all natural. Many faces bore fixed smiles, for many at the university tacitly supported the baronial cause. The time would come when sides would have to be openly chosen. For the time being, the prospect of further good food soon reinstated the spirit of the event.

  Meanwhile, Thomas was busy scrubbing dirty pans with sand to scour them clean. The vast stone sinks were off the main kitchen area, and so he was hidden from sight when Joshua returned to bring the cook more culinary herbs and spices. He was, however, in a position to see and hear most of what happened in the kitchen. The cook at first raged at the young Jew for returning so late and snatched the bunch of leaves from him, hurling them to the floor.

  ‘Too late,’ he roared. ‘It is the ginger I require.’

  He had already boiled and sieved the pears, mixed them with sugar, honey and cinnamon and boiled the mixture again. To the cooled concoction he had added numerous yolks of egg. The thickened pudding now required a sprinkling of powdered ginger, for they were almost ready for it in the hall. Servitors scurried back and forth with dirty salvers and pots from the meat course. They clattered the pots into Thomas’s sink, and most of the cook’s castigation of Joshua was drowned out. The Jew seemed unconcerned by the criticism, grinning and chewing methodically on something he took from the pouch at his waist. He tossed a pot into the grasp of the fat cook and watched him as the man hurried across the kitchen to see to his pudding. As Joshua passed the archway beyond which stood Thomas, he fumbled in his pouch again and produced a leaf, at the same time carelessly dropping a couple on the floor. He stuffed the leaf into his mouth and stared straight at Thomas. The boy was petrified until he realized there was a blankness in the Jew’s gaze. Seeming to be unaware of his adversary, Joshua turned away, chewing on his leaf.

  Thomas put down the pan he had been scouring and stepped forward into the archway.

  ‘Boy. Help me with this dish.’

  The cook was already doling the charewarden pudding into shallow bowls.

  ‘And try not to spill it all over me. I will not be as forbearing as that regent master you drowned.’

  Starting forward, Thomas automatically stooped and picked up the leaves that Joshua had dropped, thrusting them into his pouch.

  Once the pudding was consumed, the hubbub of voices in the hall increased as the naturally argumentative Masters embarked on discourses with their fellows. Falconer’s neighbour at table drew him into a disputation about the efficacy of blood-letting. Debating the merits of leeches, Falconer realized he was not concentrating on the more urgent matter in hand. He once more surveyed the hall. Fyssh and Bonham were still in place, and he relaxed again. There was a momentary respectful silence as Edward and de Cantilupe rose and left the hall, deep in conversation. Then the hubbub began again and Falconer realized his neighbour was talking to him.

  ‘As for myself, I believe cupping to be more specific than the application of leeches.’

  ‘And yet,’ rejoined Falconer, as though he had heard and weighed every word his neighbour had spoken. ‘The blood seems to clot more swiftly after removal of the leech. Have you not observed this?’

  Having thought that Falconer was inattentive or ignorant of medical matters, the man was lost for words at this most acute of observations. Falconer took the opportunity to raise his lenses to his eyes and scan the hall more carefully. Just in time, he saw Fyssh rise and make his way towards Bonham, leaning over the table to address him. He whispered a few words in the little man’s ear and Bonham’s face paled in shock. He half-turned towards Fyssh and nodded his head curtly. His bloated face creased with a broad smile, Fyssh waddled past the table and disappeared under an arch in the far corner of the room. He was making for the kitchen area, and Falconer hoped that Thomas was alert. Returning the scrutiny of his lenses to Bonham, Falconer fancied he could see a worried man. What had Fyssh said to him that had resulted in such a grim visage? Bonham’s head drooped over the table momentarily, then as he looked up his eyes locked with Falconer’s. He dropped his lenses and turned again to the eager blood-letter at his side.

  ‘Tell me, do you also believe that the last Monday in April is a dangerous day for blood-letting?’

  In the kitchen there was a cacophony of noise, too. It did not, however, match the erudite discourse of the Masters in the hall. Everyone was relieved that the feast had gone well, and pots and utensils were piled, temporarily forgotten in the vast sinks. The kitchen servants and poor students mingled together laughing over incidents such as Thomas spilling food all over Regent Master Feakes. His fellow students thought it a great treat, and the cook was now inclined to view it with more amusement. Sprawled beside the fire his great red face glowed no less powerfully than the flames themselves. He stoked his inner glow with long draughts of red wine straight from the heavy flask clutched in his beefy hand.

  Thomas sat nervously on the edge of the group of happy individuals, wondering if there was anything he should be doing to assist Falconer. He had not been much use to date, and didn’t know what Falconer was looking for. Or even if he knew who the murderer loose in Oxford was. It all seemed so confusing, and the Master’s determined logical deductions did not make sense to Thomas. Falconer seemed to be favouring Fyssh as the killer, yet Thomas’s instincts led him straight toward Bonham. Or Joshua the Jew. Thinking of Joshua reminded him of the leaves the youth had dropped on the kitchen floor. They were no doubt some culinary herb, yet all sorts of odd items appeared to hold great significance for Master Falconer. He pulled the two leaves out of his pouch and examined them. They seemed ordinary and smelled of nothing, hardly suitable as a culinary herb. Nothing made sense to him, yet Master Falconer seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

  * * *

  Falconer was not sure what to do next. Distracted by a stupid desire to show up the ignorance of his neighbour at the table, he had missed Bonham leaving his place. Now both Fyssh and Bonham were God knows where, and de Stepyng had left long ago. How was he to fill the gap in his deductive logic when everyone was out of his sight? He had thought to test each one after the feast when they should have been at their most relaxed. Now there was no one to talk to
. He might as well see whether Thomas had discovered anything in his clumsy eavesdropping.

  No one paid any attention as he slipped through the archway into the kitchen area in search of his young assistant. He found him sitting on the edge of a happy group of youths, all being regaled with stories of culinary disaster by the rotund and obviously drunken cook.

  ‘… And he ate the stew, feathers and all.’

  The story brought forth peals of laughter, and Falconer smiled and sank down beside Thomas.

  ‘Have you seen anyone come this way?’

  Thomas shook his head, then changed his mind.

  ‘Well, only Joshua. He dropped these.’

  Falconer took one of the leaves from the boy and sniffed it.

  ‘But I don’t suppose it’s important. I mean, they couldn’t be poisonous because he was eating them.’

  Out of curiosity, Falconer popped the leaf into his mouth and tentatively chewed. It seemed pleasant. Still, Joshua did not figure on his mental list of candidates. He needed to find Fyssh or Bonham – de Stepyng need not be considered for the moment. Chewing absently on the leaf, he began to feel strangely relaxed despite his worries. He grinned inanely at the cook and tried to recall why he had come into the kitchen. Another poor student was telling a story, and although Falconer could not hear it properly, he felt inclined to laugh uproariously at the end of it. Someone sitting next to him turned and gave him a curious look. Didn’t the fool understand he was enjoying himself? The cook spat into the fire and the flames crackled and seem to curl out towards Falconer. He rocked back and clutched at the side of the open hearth. The stone felt curiously soft, warm and scaly. The carved gargoyle under his hand seemed to shift, sending a cold shudder through him. Surely it was just the flickering of the flames that moved the shadows of the carving? Several pairs of eyes now turned in his direction, and he backed away from their menacing glare into the shadows of the arch leading to the scullery. He pressed his face against the cold stone and calmed himself.