Falconer and the Rain of Blood

by Ian Morson

  Dagville nodded his head.

  ‘Yes. And the Jew is there too. They both must be crazy.’

  ‘Take me to them.’

  Dagville sighed, and crossed the courtyard of his now deserted inn. He took Falconer through a door, and stood at the bottom of the stairway beyond. He pointed up it.

  ‘They’re at the top. The room on the left. But if you take my advice, you won’t go up there. The air is bad. I don’t know how I’m going to make it clean ever again.’

  Falconer ignored the disconsolate inn-keeper and his problems, and hurried up the stairs. They creaked ominously under his feet, the sound seeming even louder in the stillness. At the top of the stairs, he saw the flicker of a candle beyond the half-open door before him. A shadow moved across the opening, and a strange apparition appeared in the crack. The figure’s head and lower face was covered with white linen, leaving only a pair of eyes peering out from the wrappings. They were green, and Falconer recognised them immediately. He stepped through the doorway, and hissed out indignantly.

  ‘Saphira. What in God’s name do you think you are doing?’

  Saphira looked his way, then stepped up to him, and pushed Falconer through the doorway back on to the landing. Pulling the linen mask from her mouth, she hissed back at him.

  ‘Making a dying man comfortable. What would you have me do?’

  ‘Bullock says he has the red plague. And that he can pass it on to anyone close to him.’

  She could see the terror in William’s eyes, and knew it was not because he feared for his own life. She forced down the tempest that had brewed up inside her at his unmannerly reaction. Taking a deep breath, she calmly explained Samson’s observations on how the plague might only be spread by phlegm and other bodily fluids.

  ‘And so, what I am doing is perfectly safe. The clothes I am wearing must be washed, or even burned when I return home. But the loss of a dress is a small price to pay, if I am to learn what can be done to prevent this pox.’

  Falconer pointed at the cloth in Saphira’s hand that had formerly covered her face.

  ‘Then what is that for, if the very air you are breathing is not infected?’

  She blushed, and looked away momentarily.

  ‘I admit I was not entirely convinced by Samson’s assertions. Even he may be wrong. But tell me, what has Peter Bullock done about the problem?’

  Falconer pulled a face.

  ‘He has ordered the town gates locked. None can enter or leave until this is over.’

  ‘Thanks be for that.’

  It was the voice of Samson from behind Saphira that called down praise for the constable’s actions. Falconer went to shake the old man’s hand, but Samson held him back with a gesture of his upraised palms.

  ‘You should not touch me, as I may pass on the noxious effluence by doing so. You should leave, and now you can take Saphira with you.’

  She tried to protest, but Samson was adamant.

  ‘You have done enough here. The man is dying, and I can see this through by myself now. Go home and cleanse your clothes and yourself. Use the mikveh in the tunnels.’

  Samson was referring to the ritual bath down under the ground in Jewry. Several cellars of the houses along Fish Street had been linked as a refuge and escape route in times of trouble. Falconer knew of the tunnels because they had once saved Saphira’s life when some violent men had broken into her home. She could access the tunnels by raising a slab in her kitchen floor. In the catacombs, the ritual bath was fed by an underground stream, and was reached through a low archway and down a flight of stone steps. It was deep enough for total immersion as required by the Jewish law, and Samson was recommending it for both ritual cleansing, and for the wholly practical purpose of washing away any evil taint from the dying man.

  Saphira nodded her acquiescence, and followed Falconer down the stairs. Dagville let them out into the street, and they heard the bolt sliding back behind them. It completed the image in both their minds of the inn being a prison. Indeed, Oxford itself had now become a prison for every soul who dwelled there, who were all sentenced to a term the length of the red plague’s life.

  Numbed from lack of sleep, and the seriousness of the situation, Falconer and Saphira Le Veske trudged back to the house on Fish Street that she rented from a cousin. The journey was completed in silence, neither knowing what to say to the other. And because of Samson’s warnings about Saphira’s clothes, neither one of them touched the other. At her front door, Saphira raised her hand to stop William following her.

  ‘The ritual requires nakedness, and separation of men from women. Go back to your students. They are going to need your guidance over the next few days.’

  Falconer grimaced, and nodded his acknowledgement of Saphira’s good advice. The young students under his care in Aristotle’s Hall would no doubt react badly to being locked inside the town. In fact, once the circumstances were known, the whole town would be seething with anger and fear. They would all be incarcerated cheek by jowl with the small pox, not knowing where it might be lurking, and who might already be infected with it. Peter Bullock would have his work cut out keeping a lid on the bubbling stew that mixture would cause. He looked Saphira in the eyes.

  ‘I know it is useless of me to ask you not to get close to another infected person again. Your skills and Samson’s knowledge will save someone’s life, I am sure, even if the man at Dagville’s Inn is doomed. But please take care of yourself.’

  Saphira smiled, and closed the door. Falconer put with his ear to the scarred timbers that still bore the mark of the axe that had nearly killed Saphira and himself during the recent riot. He could hear on the other side of the door the swish of Saphira’s dress against the stone floor as she walked to the kitchen and the secret tunnels. He stood there long after the sound had disappeared, praying to a God he was not sure of for her safety. Finally, he turned away and walked through the silent town towards Aristotle’s Hall.

  *

  Dawn, the Feast of St Adam, 15th September.

  Peter Bullock had spent a restless night tossing and turning on his straw-filled pallet pulled close to the open fire in the great hall of St George’s castle. He kept to the old ways of communal sleeping arrangements for servants. Though only he lived in Oxford castle, he did not feel like the lord of St George’s. His master was the town in general, and so he still avoided sleeping in the solar that was by rights the private room of the master of the castle, especially as a fire always burned in the great hall. This past night, however, he wished he had usurped the position of lord of the castle. The problem had been his sharing of the open space of the great hall with his two guests. One — Isaac the Greek — had been acceptable despite his snoring. It was Brother Aldwyn who had prevented Bullock from sleeping well. The monk had kept to the offices that governed his daily life at Oseney Abbey.

  In the middle of the night, just as Bullock had been dozing off, he had become aware of a murmuring from across the other side of the fire, now reduced to glowing embers. He prized open an eye, and in the reddish light observed Aldwyn on his knees praying. But even as he opened his mouth to protest, the monk completed his devotions and settled back down on his rough bed, soon joining his snores to Isaac’s. Bullock, however, lay awake for some time, his mind racing with thoughts concerning the events of the day just ended. So he was not aware of falling asleep, but must have done, because the next thing he knew was that he was again being woken by a quiet voice. This time he could see more, as a pale dawn was illuminating the hall. Having previously disturbed Bullock with Matins, Aldwyn was now observing the liturgical office of Lauds. The constable groaned for he knew it would not be long before his sleep would be disrupted by Prime, the first office of the day proper, and then after that by Terce. Sleepless, he lay back until the monk did in fact begin the Prime liturgy, and then rose, his limbs creaking with the cold. He threw a log on the embers, and went to fetch some stale bread from from the bin, and a jug of weak ale.

 
When he returned, Aldwyn was seated close beside the revivified fire. He held open on his lap the book he had kept close to him all the night. He looked up at Bullock as he returned.

  ‘Listen to this. Then the Red Dragon will revert to its true habits and struggle to tear itself to pieces. What can that signify but the events of last November, when Prince Llewellyn’s own brother, Daffyd, conspired against him along with the Lord of Powys? The prince prevailed — thank the Lord — and the conspirators fled to England. But it weakened the Red Dragon of Wales even further.’

  Bullock, unaware of Merlin’s prophecies, wasn’t sure what the old monk was maundering on about, and limited himself to a grunt. He passed his guest a piece of bread and poured him some ale into a goblet. Crossing the hall to his customary chair, he saw that the Greek was stirring, and went over to him with his meagre breakfast. Isaac sat up and thanked him. Aldwyn had not finished his diatribe, however, and his piping voice carried across the hall.

  ‘And then listen to Merlin’s next prophecy. Next will come the thunderer, and every one of the farmer’s fields will be a disappointment.’

  He stabbed his bony finger at the text on his lap.

  ‘Do you see? That fixes the time of the unravelling of the prophecy precisely.’

  Bullock sniffed disdainfully. He was disinclined to believe in vague prophecies that told of events that happened time and again.

  ‘Crops have failed before. I recall in the year of the great comet …’

  ‘Ten years ago, as I recall.’

  Bullock acknowledged the monk’s erudition.

  ‘Yes, the year before King Henry’s fiftieth year on the throne. Crops were poor and some starved because of it. Why could not that have been the time referred to in the prophecy?’

  ‘Yes, tell us, priest? And who is this Merlin you speak of.’

  Isaac was now joining in the debate, as he flattened his greasy, black locks over his skull and dusted off the rushes that had stuck to his tunic in the night. Aldwyn stared at him, as if realising for the first time that someone else was present.

  ‘Where are you from that you do not know of Merlin? You have the dark looks and build of a Welshman like myself. But you cannot be one, if you have not heard of King Arthur’s great priest and helper.’

  Isaac pulled back his shoulders, and adopted the wide-legged stance of a warrior.

  ‘I am Isaac Doukas, descended from the kings of Pafos in Cyprus, servant to Robert Burnell, Chancellor of this kingdom.’

  Aldwyn was clearly not impressed, and sniffed.

  ‘A follower of the Byzantine heresy, then. That explains why you have not heard of Merlin. Nor can understand the prophecy so clearly laid before you.’

  He turned to address Bullock directly, ignoring the Cypriot.

  ‘The more important part of the prophecy concerns the revenge of the thunderer. On the Feast of St Protus there was an earthquake felt south of here, was there not? Do you not recall it?’

  Bullock recalled it. How could he not? It had happened only a week ago, and though it had not been felt in Oxford, news had reached the town the next day. The constable was beginning to feel uneasy.

  ‘What does the prophecy say next?’

  Aldwyn stared him in the eyes, reciting from memory.

  ‘Death will lay hold of the people, and destroy all the nations.’

  *

  Having lifted the flagstone in her kitchen floor, Saphira descended the stone steps to a world the Christians of Oxford were unaware of beneath their feet. At the bottom of the steps, the walls either side were built solidly of good ashlar, and arched over her head. It could have been a simple cellar, but this was more than that. For as she walked through this first arched room and on into another, she finally found herself in a low tunnel at a junction of arches. She held a small lamp in her hand to give her light. The air down here was cool, and she could hear the sound of water dripping further off. Right now she was underneath Fish Street. Many of the cellars on either side of the road in the houses owned by Jews were linked together. It was here that those of the faith had a mikveh — the ritual bath for cleansing after certain defilements such as a woman’s monthly flow of blood. Saphira had once assumed the only one in Oxford was by the river near the Jewish cemetery. After all, dead bodies as well as living men and women needed ritual cleansing. But she had been wrong, and was finally let into the secret of the tunnels. She stepped through a low arch, and now stood at the top of a flight of stone steps that led down into a crystal-clear pool of water. Having shed her dress in the house above and thrown it into the fire to burn, she was dressed only in her shift. She pulled it over her head and stood naked at the top of the steps. She removed her snood and shook out her hair to ensure it too would be properly cleansed. Slowly she walked down the steps into the chill waters, sucking in her breath. At first cold, the waters seemed to envelope her like a balm, until she stood up to her shoulders in the cleansing pool. Shivering a little, she took a deep breath and ducked her head under the waters. Her red hair spread out above her like a bloody stain on the pool’s surface.

  Chapter Nine

  John Peper crept down the stairs of the inn where they were staying just as dawn was breaking. As soon as he saw that the courtyard of the inn was clear of people, he hissed up the stairwell, and Margaret tripped lithely down, followed by the more rotund and uncertain Simon Goodrich. Halfway down, he trod on a loose step, and it gave a crack that could have woken the dead. He clutched his pipe and tabor to his chest and froze. John Peper scowled, and motioned Margaret back into the shadow of the stairwell. They held their breath for an age, but the sound had not aroused the unsuspecting innkeeper apparently. The troupe’s escape without paying the bill was still possible. Simon managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without further mishap, and Robert Kemp quickly followed him, avoiding the traitorous step. Outside the inn, Agnes Cheke, who had gone ahead to muffle their cart’s wheels with rags, was already waiting for them in the street. As the darkness of the night gave way to a grey morning, they hurried towards South Gate. The wheels of their cart made little noise due to Agnes’s attentions, but they stopped close to Torold’s Lane to remove the rags. Otherwise the gate keeper might guess why they were abroad so early, even though they had chosen this gate because of Will Sekyll. They knew him from previous sojourns in Oxford during their annual circuit of the country as a callow youth with not much brain.

  As they approached the gate, John noticed it was not yet open, and assumed they were earlier than he had imagined. Robert Kemp, juggler and occasional fool, surreptitiously pulled a carved mask out of the cart. It was painted white with two dark holes for eyes and a row of bare teeth. He fixed it on his face and pulled his hood well forward obscuring his features. As Sekyll emerged from his little box beside the gate, Kemp hovered behind John Peper, who advanced on the gate-keeper. He gave him a jovial welcome.

  ‘Good morning, Master Sekyll. I hope we are not to be kept waiting too long. We have an engagement in Abingdon this very day, and must be on our way.’

  Before Will could say anything, Kemp raised his head and stared through the eye-slits of the skull mask at the gate-keeper. He uttered a low moan to add to the impression. Will Sekyll took one look at the spectre on Peper’s shoulder, and fainted straight away. Peper, who had been unaware of his companion’s performance, looked behind him and growled at the apparition.

  ‘You fool, Robert. This was supposed to be a quiet escape from the town. Now the gate-keeper is swooned away at our feet, and a crowd is gathering.’

  He was right about his last statement. Already, several townsfolk, who were clearly about their business early, were gathering round the strange scene. With a laugh, Kemp pulled the mask off and tossed it in the cart. Margaret knelt beside the prostrate Sekyll, and slapped his cheek.

  ‘Will? Are you all right?’

  Sekyll groaned, and as he came to, gazed fearfully around him.

  ‘Where is the … the … skeleton?’


  Margaret patted his arm comfortingly.

  ‘It’s nothing, Will, just Robert playing the fool. Now get up and open the gate. Look there’s a gaggle of good citizens waiting on you.’

  Will scrambled to his feet, still casting around for the apparition with a death mask. He already had an inkling why the constable had told him to bar the gate to anyone. Gossip flew fast, even in the night hours, and it was being said that plague stalked the streets of Oxford. So the appearance of a skeleton before his eyes only served to confirm what he feared. And it seemed that one or two of the people waiting anxiously for the gate to open had also heard something. Saul Shoesmith was a pot-man at Thomas Dagville’s inn, and often drank the dregs from the jugs he collected. Some nights he was too drunk to drag himself back to the stews of Beaumont where he rented a room. So he slept off the effects of the bad ale Dagville served in the stable block. Last night had been a particularly bad night, and he had retired to the hayloft early. Dagville had assumed he had gone home to Beaumont, outside the town walls, and hadn’t even come to seek him out in his usual lair. Shoesmith had therefore still been inside the inn when all the comings and goings had roused him. Though his head throbbed unmercifully, overhearing the merest whisper of the word pox from his master’s lips as he spoke to his wife was enough. He had tied up his belt, and sneaked away. Realising North Gate was still barred and bolted, he had scurried down Fish Street, fearful that the pox was on his heels. He knew Sekyll as a dimwit, who always opened South Gate if a tale of woe was spun to him. Now these stupid jongleurs were holding him up.

  Before even Shoesmith could urge Sekyll to do his duty and open the gate though, another figure entered the fray. Dressed in the fine robes of a merchant and atop a rouncey laden with saddle-bags, sat Alderman Robin Sparrow. Behind him, and with a look of fear on her face born of the hatred of being on horseback at all, Mistress Sparrow clutched at her palfrey’s neck. The gawping crowd parted to allow the horses to the fore, and the alderman called out irritably to Sekyll.