Falconer and the Rain of Blood

by Ian Morson

  *

  Peter Bullock sat disconsolately in his spartan accommodation in St George’s Castle. The old fortification stood on a mound at the western end of the town surrounded by a moat engineered from the stream that ran over the marshy ground outside the town walls. His two rooms, one above the other in the tower, were allocated to him by virtue of his appointment as constable. The aldermen of Oxford had a duty to maintain order in the town — no mean feat when you brought together within its wall rowdy young students, townsfolk jealous of the university’s privileges, and neighbouring farmers full of drink on market days. It was Bullock’s appointed job to keep the lid on this bubbling stew. A former mercenary, he was used to rough justice, and meted it out quite often with the flat of his old sword, stopping potential riots from occurring with a judicious swipe. But today he was feeling his age. At sixty four, he could no longer wade into the middle of a dispute with the same vigour he had possessed even five years ago. King Henry, who had ruled for as long as Bullock could remember, had died at sixty-five. Who was he — a mere commoner — to expect to outlive the monarch?

  He eased his aching back in the fireside chair, and reached for the jug of ale at his feet. A sudden spasm of his spine spoiled his grasp, and the jug tipped over, splashing the ale across the rushes on the flagstone floor. He groaned, and stretched to ease the pain. He heard a clatter of feet on the steps that led up to his private chamber, and reached for his sword, still in its scabbard by his side. The haste with which his visitor was negotiating the spiral stairs suggested this was more than a social call. He eased himself upright, clutching the arm of his chair, just as the caller burst into the dimly lit room. It was Grace from the Dagville Inn, a buxom and round-faced ale-wife, and normally of good cheer. This day, she looked ashen and careworn.

  ‘What’s this, Mistress Dagville? You have already brought my dinner today. Have you forgotten?’

  Peter Bullock kept bachelor quarters, and relied on the wholesome cooking of Grace Dagville to supply his daily needs. Even as he spoke, he regretted his levity. Looking at the woman’s face, he knew he would not be able to lighten what looked as if it was going to be a serious situation. Grace Dagville licked her lips nervously before speaking.

  ‘It’s one of our guests at the inn.’ She paused, uncertain how to go on. ‘You need to see this for yourself.’

  Bullock frowned.

  ‘See what, mistress? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?’

  The robust woman looked around as if fearing someone would overhear what she was too afraid to say. She screwed up the end of her linen apron, which showed signs of what she had been cooking before coming to fetch the constable.

  ‘Constable Bullock, you need to see this for yourself.’

  The constable sighed, strapped on his sword, and followed Mistress Dagville back out on to the streets of Oxford. It was evening, and despite it being September, the air was still and humid. In spite of the heat though, Thomas Dagville’s wife scurried off, leading the way towards Carfax, the main crossroads in the centre of the town. Her ample buttocks wobbled back and forth under the coarse grey cloth of her skirt, and Bullock pulled at the collar of his jerkin, feeling the sweat run down his back. They were soon at the inn, where an anxious Thomas Dagville stood, looking along the High Street and wringing his hands.

  ‘Constable Bullock, am I glad to see you. You have to tell me what to do.’

  Bullock wiped his red face on his sleeve.

  ‘I will be glad to, when I know what this is all about.’

  Thomas looked sharply at his wife, who flapped her hands in evident distress.

  ‘I couldn’t say anything to the constable in case someone overheard, and then there would be panic. And it would not be good for our business.’

  Thomas considered her comments, and nodded in agreement.

  ‘You are right. Though I fear our business is ruined anyway.’

  Bullock was getting increasingly annoyed by these incomprehensible statements.

  ‘Dagville, for God’s sake show me what this is all about.’

  The inn-keeper sighed.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  He led Bullock upstairs to where he kept his few guests in rooms under the eaves of the inn. He opened one of the low doors, and stood uncertainly in the opening. Bullock brushed past him, and stepped into the darkness. The stench of sweat and vomit immediately hit him. He held his hand over his mouth and nose, and peered into the gloom. At first he could see nothing, but then his attention was drawn to the corner of the room by a rustling sound. At first he thought it was rats, and he raised a foot to kick out at the beasts. But in the gloom the shape of a man lying on a low pallet began to emerge as his old eyes adjusted. He made to go closer, but Dagville held him back by his arm.

  ‘Take care. He is … feverish.’

  Bullock shrugged off the restraining hold of the innkeeper and, covering his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he took a step forwards. He leaned over the man, and saw it was a fit-looking man of middle age with the tanned skin of one who had been in Outremer. Under his tan, however, there was the pallor of a sick man, and as Bullock looked more closely the crusader knight coughed. The constable felt a spray of wet phlegm hit his sleeve, and he lurched back. As an old soldier, he knew enough of sickness and plague to know closeness to a sick man was a danger. He should remove his shirt and wash it when he got back to his quarters.

  ‘Do you see?’

  The question came from Grace Dagville, who was now at his elbow. She was pointing at the man’s face. But Bullock had already seen what he needed to. The knight’s forehead was covered with a hideous rash, and when he had coughed, Bullock could see his tongue had been covered in blisters. The man stirred on his bed, but otherwise seemed oblivious to the people in his room. Bullock backed away, pushing Grace Dagville behind him out of the room. Once Thomas Dagville had closed the door, he ordered the innkeeper to keep everyone else away, and to say nothing about this matter until he had brought a physick to verify what they were facing.

  Dagville’s face crumpled.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious what it is? It’s the plague — and in my inn too.’

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Thomas. Plague it may be, but what sort? Until I know for sure, I won’t know what action to take.’

  He went to touch Dagville’s arm by way of reassurance, but recalled the sick man’s cough that had sprayed his shirt. The old Jew, Samson, had once told him that plague could be spread that way. He didn’t necessarily believe that was true, but he wouldn’t take any risks. In fact, he would fetch Samson here immediately, and get some idea of what he was facing. The man was a mine of information about diseases, even if he was a Jew. He wagged a finger at the Dagvilles.

  ‘Keep quiet about this. I don’t want a panic. I will be back shortly.’

  The inn-keeper and his wife looked pale, but nodded their heads. If this wasn’t plague, they didn’t want rumours to be spread without good reason. They surely didn’t want anyone to be afraid of coming to their inn again. So they were guaranteed to be tight-lipped until the worst was known. Bullock rushed off down the High Street towards the Jewish quarter.

  *

  Saphira was receiving her next lesson on cures for poisoning and the effects of potions and herbs from Samson. Few outside the Jews who lived in Oxford knew of his secret skills, not only in medicines but also in poisons. If the Christians in whose midst he lived guessed at this knowledge, he might have been singled out for special attention and even worse persecution. So he lived a secret life inside what was a secretive community. He was getting old now, however, and Saphira hated the idea of his knowledge dying with him. For months now she had been mining that fund of information, and today Samson was going to test her on her knowledge of poisons.

  His grizzled locks, hanging either side of his old face, gave him the look of the very Devil incarnate to outsiders. But to Saphira his strong visage and sparkling eyes spoke volumes about the humanity of the
man. He was both knowledgeable and wise, and adept at using his skills in the best way possible, even though at times he seemed eccentric. Saphira, who knew his odd ways, smiled at her teacher as he snapped his fingers at her. They were in the kitchen at the back of his house, a room with a large open fire dominating one wall. In the centre of the room stood a well-worn table that should have been for preparing vegetables and meats. But this was where the resemblance to Saphira’s own kitchen ended. The table was not set up to accommodate Jewish dietary laws, nor any other form of food preparation. Instead, its surface was covered with pots and jars. And strange aromas filled the kitchen, one coming from the pot that now bubbled over the fire. Samson hurried over to it, and carried on stirring it gently.

  ‘Forgive me, child, for being so abrupt, but the concoction needs my full attention.’

  Saphira smiled coyly at being called a child, and even found herself blushing a little. This old man indeed made her feel once more like a child learning its alphabet. Except he was teaching her ways of both curing and poisoning people, for sometimes the same brew did both. He pointed to the pot on the fire.

  ‘Albertus Magnus himself wrote down this recipe. It is arsenic boiled in milk, and can be used to kill flies. He also recommends a mixture of white lime, opium and black hellebore painted on the walls to the same purpose. This preparation … ’ He took one of the jars from the table, and lifted the lid, showing it to Saphira. ‘… This is the herb henbane which Pliny says can be used to cure earache. Though he does warn it can cause mental disorders.’

  A month or so ago, Saphira would have gone to touch the contents of the pot. But now she knew better, and recited what she had learned about henbane.

  ‘It is well to beware. Four leaves only will induce the sleep of drunkenness from which you may never awake.’

  Samson patted her arm proudly. Since starting her studies, she had found herself wanting to know more and more, until the lectures had lasted into the early hours of the morning. More than once Samson had fallen asleep over the big kitchen table, and she had quietly let herself out of his house, and crossed Fish Street to return to her own home opposite, magical words echoing in her head.

  ‘Mercury, gypsum, copper, iron, lapis lazuli, arsenic sublimate, lead.’

  These were all powerful, strong words for materials with powerful effects. But she preferred the names of the herbs and insects.

  ‘Usnea, hellebore, bryony, nux vomica, serpentary, cantharides …. cateputria.’

  As these words circled round her head, and Samson stirred his arsenic and milk mixture, there came a thunderous knocking at the front door.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Listen,’ said Aldwyn, opening the book at a page marked with a piece of cloth. ‘“The Red One will grieve for what has happened...” That’s the levelling of the mountains, and the rivers running with blood, as I explained before.’

  Falconer sighed, knowing he would have to indulge the old monk in his fantasies, if he was ever to learn more about the fate of his mother.

  ‘Yes, I recall all that. The Red Dragon being the royal house of Wales, and the White Dragon being King Henry and his son. But I don’t think the Welsh rivers ran with blood. And what were these “mountains” that were levelled?’

  Aldwyn grumbled about Falconer’s carping criticisms, explaining the words away as mere poetic license by Geoffrey of Monmouth.

  ‘King Henry almost defeated ap Gruffyd’s grandfather, his namesake, Llewellyn the Great, in Snowdonia. In so doing, he could be said to be levelling the great mountain. And the river running with blood could be, in the historian’s mind, the ancient ford of the River Severn where princes of Wales have traditionally met kings of England. It was there young Llewellyn had to bend the knee to Henry more than ten years ago. A sort of bloody submission.’

  Falconer was minded to mention that, if this poetic view of history was the best Geoffrey could do, then the rest of his fanciful book was not to be trusted. He recalled another more down-to-earth chronicler, who had called the Welsh no more than Trojan debris swept into the wooded savagery of Cambria under the guidance of the devil. But he could see Aldwyn’s blood was up already, and didn’t want to provoke him further. The old man was intent on continuing his exposition.

  ‘“The Red One will grieve for what has happened, but after an immense effort it will regain its strength.” That’s the rise of Llewellyn, do you see?’

  Falconer was about to question this, but was stopped by Aldwyn holding up a cautionary finger. With Falconer thus silenced, he read on.

  ‘“Calamity will next pursue the White One, and the buildings in its little garden will be torn down.”’ Before Falconer could query even this, Aldwyn interpreted for him. ‘That is metaphorical, explained by the next line. “Seven who hold the sceptre shall perish.”’

  He looked at Falconer in triumph.

  ‘You see? It’s clear to what that refers. The “little garden” is a reference to Edward’s line — the Plantagenets, named for the common broom his ancestor wore in his cap. Merlin’s prophecy says seven of his brood will die, and already six have perished including young Henry, the one-time heir to the throne, just last year.’

  Just like everyone else in England, Falconer knew of the succession of children given birth to by Queen Eleanor, two of whom were stillborn or died almost at birth, and four others dying in childhood. Of course it was not unusual for children to die in those perilous early years of life, but Edward and Eleanor did seem prodigiously unlucky. Was there something in Merlin’s prophecy after all?

  *

  Saphira and Samson were transfixed by the thunderous knocking on his door. When you were a Jew in a Christian world that blamed you for all sorts of misdemeanours from drinking Christian babies’ blood to the murder of their Messiah, you didn’t open your front door without finding out first who was knocking. There had been plenty of times in Oxford in recent years when you would have found a mob outside. Indeed, it had not been long since Saphira’s own front door had nearly been cleft in two with a hatchet. William had been with her then, and she wished he were around again now. It was all very well being an independent woman, running the family business of wine shipping, and keeping unruly and thieving sea captains under her thumb. But a man did come in useful when you were faced with physical force. A woman and an old man like Samson could be easily overwhelmed. Fortunately, this time William’s strong arm was unnecessary. Samson cautiously slid back the panel in the upper part of his stout oak door, and peered out to see who was knocking so peremptorily. He breathed a sigh of relief, turning to tell Saphira who it was.

  ‘It’s Peter Bullock, and he’s alone.’

  The old man began to slide back the bolts that secured the door. As he bent down to open the lower bolt, Saphira could see the constable’s face through the barred hatch. He looked pale and worried, and a pang of anxiety shot through her. She instinctively felt that something was seriously amiss for Peter to announce himself so noisily. The constable knew only too well that his loud hammering on the old man’s door would create a mood of fear amongst the Jews. Seeing Saphira’s look, Bullock spoke quietly through the hatch.

  ‘Forgive me if I alarmed you, but there is an urgent problem, and I need Samson’s help.’

  Saphira pulled a face, and chided Peter nevertheless.

  ‘What could be so important that you risk scaring half the neighbourhood to death?’

  Samson pulled the door open far enough for Bullock to slip through. Then he closed it behind him, and made sure he threw the top bolt again before turning to his visitor.

  ‘And what is so urgent that you risk falling dead at our feet in your haste.’

  Saphira noticed for the first time what Samson had seen immediately. That the constable was breathing heavily, and that his face was as grey as a pewter tankard. It had taken the physician in Samson to notice the symptoms of someone who could the next moment fall sick of the half-dead disease, or even worse. Saphira silently cursed
her own poor observation, and led Peter to a chair. Bullock was about to protest, asserting there was no time, but suddenly his legs felt like jelly, and he slumped down in it gratefully.

  ‘Thank you. I will just take a moment to catch my breath. I have been tired lately … can’t sleep.’

  Samson hurried off, his sidelocks swinging as he shook his head in annoyance at Bullock’s stupidity. The constable would not admit he was not the man he had been when he had fought as a mercenary forty years ago. Appointed by the aldermen and merchants of Oxford to keep the peace, he still took on too much work associated with his role as constable. When Samson came back, he was carrying a glass bottle with a blood-red, cloudy potion in it.

  ‘You should get some of your minions to do the fetching and carrying. And the running around. Now drink this.’

  Bullock balked at the command, but Samson was insistent, and he tipped back the small bottle, swigging down the reddish-coloured contents. Saphira quietly asked Samson what the potion was.

  ‘It is an essence of hawthorn berries. It relaxes the body and helps in situations where …’ He lowered his voice so that Bullock might not hear. ‘… where the heart is threatening to stop.’

  Bullock pulled a face at the taste of the potion, but Saphira could see he was already beginning to breathe more normally.

  ‘In future I might indeed get a man to be my runner, Samson. But in this case, the fewer people who know about the situation the better.’

  Bullock pushed himself out of the chair and back on to his feet, his face once again stern.

  ‘You must come with me now.’

  ‘And why is that, Master Bullock? It is getting late, and I would prefer to retire to my bed soon. I know when an old man must rest, even if you don’t. That potion will help you, but its effects are slowacting. I would recommend …’

  Bullock grabbed Samson’s arm to stop him, and Saphira could see the anxiety expressed in his look. She laid a hand on his shoulder.