Falconer and the Rain of Blood

by Ian Morson

  Of course they remembered the time. De Askeles had been their leader then, an overbearing man, who got all he deserved. They had been glad to be rid of him, but it had to be said that times had been very lean for them since his demise. In those days, they had travelled in a large cart containing props and scenery pulled by a good nag, and had performed outside churches. Now they were reduced to a handcart, and performing in taverns with Margaret doing her tumbling and letting old drunkards imagine how she would perform in their beds. Agnes could see that her words had got them all thinking of the good times, and so distracted them with another problem.

  ‘And maybe Will Plome will have the good grace to come and find us out, and apologise for disappearing.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Wandering Will,’ muttered John Peper. ‘Where do you think he could have got to, Agnes?’

  The old woman shrugged her scrawny shoulders.

  ‘Lord knows. I just know since he learned his letters, he’s not the same simple Will Plome I knew. That priest never should have opened his eyes to what’s written in those lines of the plays we used to perform. He believed every word in them.’

  Robert Kemp laughed contemptuously.

  ‘But they were all tales from the Bible. Are you saying that God’s word isn’t true?’

  ‘God’s words? It was man’s words that scared poor Will to death.’

  She began to recite from memory a short piece familiar to all the players.

  ‘“Solomon said, for he foresaw, that whoever enters Hell within

  Shall never come out, the scholars know. And therefore fellow leave this din.

  Job, your servant, also, thus, in his time, did tell

  That neither friend nor foe should find a release from Hell.”’

  Peper knew the words, though he rarely performed them, being no good at reciting.

  ‘The Harrowing of Hell. Yes, I remember Will hiding under the old wagon when he first heard those lines. He thought he was doomed to an eternity in Hell. That’s what the priests want from such words. To scare the witless into obedience to the church.’

  His wife, Margaret, clutched his arm.

  ‘And to bring them to God, John. Come on. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to stay at the castle.’

  Downcast by their own sober thoughts, the little band gathered up their possessions and walked up an eerily silent Fish Street. To bolster his own fears, Simon began to put some words together, singing out to fill the void left by the lack of traders calling out.

  ‘Wandering Will, I’m feeling hungry,

  So where’er you are, I’ll kill and eat thee. ’

  Agnes nudged him to stop, but had to suppress a laugh.

  *

  The body was removed to St John’s Church nearby, and Thomas Symon, Falconer’s former pupil and now regent master in his own right, agreed to examine it more closely. Symon had turned himself into an excellent anatomist, but because the church disapproved of cutting open God’s work in the form of a human body, he worked cautiously and discreetly. And usually on convicted murderers who had forfeit the protection of the church. A good and devout Christian, Symon had reconciled himself to the requirements of anatomy, seeing it as a way of understanding God in His shaping of a human body. In the case of John Bukwode, however, there would be no need for an intrusion into the carcase that lay in a side chapel of the church. Falconer had simply asked him to examine the wound on Bukwode’s head and compare it with the book he now held in his hand.

  ‘Merlin’s Prophecies, I see,’ Symon muttered, flipping through the stiff vellum pages. ‘What a shame Master Bukwode didn’t see his own end prophesied in it.’

  He looked at the brass corner that William had indicated, observing the hair wedged in the book furniture. And the bloodstain on the worn leather cover. Bending over the body, he aligned the edge of the book with the caved-in area of Bukwode’s skull. It was a perfect match. Looking over his shoulder to make sure the priest who had brought him to the dead body was no longer in evidence, Symon slyly pulled a small but very sharp knife out of his purse and pared away the skin around the wound. Then he used the tip of the blade to prise some of the bone out of the indentation. One look at its unusual thinness told him all he needed to know.

  ‘You didn’t stand a chance, did you, John Bukwode? He hit you in just the wrong place.’

  He slid the knife back in his purse, his work done.

  *

  With the body of their master out of sight, the clerks of Corner Hall were a little less on edge, so Falconer began the task of examining them one by one. He had hoped that Doukas the Greek would get bored with what he was doing and leave. But he showed every indication that he intended to remain, and even produced a small quill, a pot of ink and a used piece of parchment from the satchel slung over his shoulder. In response to Falconer’s questioning look, he explained what he was doing.

  ‘Chancellor Burnell will want to know everything eventually.’

  He seated himself at the table set at the end of the gloomy great hall, and laid out his tools. The students stared at him nervously, and Falconer knew that he would need to reassure them that they were not under suspicion, or he would learn nothing. He turned to the youth who had summoned him from Aristotles’. He looked older than the others, and a little more in control of himself.

  ‘Tell me your name, boy.’

  Doukas lifted his quill up in anticipation, and seeing the look of fear in the boy’s eyes, Falconer laid a firm, restraining hand on the hand holding the quill.

  ‘It will not be recorded, only the facts as you tell them to me.’

  Doukas sighed and laid his quill down again. With a final glance at the scribe, the boy licked his lips and spoke up, the tremor in his voice belying his bold demeanour.

  ‘My name is Alexander Leys. I am in my third year of study. What can I tell you, master? We were all in our beds last night and heard nothing.’

  Unseen by anyone Doukas quietly pick his quill up and begin writing as Falconer pursued his investigations.

  ‘You heard nothing despite the fact that there must have been a struggle?’

  Falconer did not know if such a struggle took place, but he wasn’t about to make his enquiries that easy for the students. Alexander Leys examined his shabby shoes for a considerable time before answering.

  ‘We had been revelling, and I suppose we had drunk too much. When we got back last night, we all just flopped in our respective beds.’

  Falconer could see, as in Aristotle’s Hall, that one end of the great hall had been partitioned off into cubicles rather like in Bartlemas hospital. Each student had his own pallet and it was obvious that, from there, no-one would have been able to see someone entering Corner Hall.

  ‘And Regent Master Bukwode allows such dissolution?’

  Leys looked furtive.

  ‘The regent master was not in his solar last night.’

  Someone whispered something from the back of the bunch of clerks by the hearth, and a spotty-faced youth at the front giggled. Falconer strode over, and grabbed his arm, pulling him from the group.

  ‘And what have you to say, boy?’

  The youth squirmed in Falconer’s vice-like grip, but spoke up defiantly.

  ‘Master Bukwode was in Grope Lane.’

  Falconer grimaced. While his students misbehaved, Bukwode was paying a whore to service him. He felt some indignation, until it occurred to him that he was little better. He often stayed late with Saphira Le Veske, at the expense of the students in his care. Looking over at Doukas, he saw the scribe shake his head slightly, his quill hovering above the parchment. At least he had the kindness to not record the reason why Bukwode was abroad last night. Falconer took a deep breath, and carried on.

  ‘So you all came back late in the night, not knowing if your master had returned or not, and simply climbed into your respective beds. There you slept the sleep of innocents, not hearing your master return, nor even his murder. Was there nothing unusual that you can tell
me of.’

  He watched as the clerks, abashed by his tirade, look at each other and shake their heads.

  ‘There was something, master.’

  It was Alexander Leys who spoke out, and Falconer turned back to him.

  ‘What was that?’

  The youth screwed up his face, trying to bring some vague recollection to mind.

  ‘When we came back, I was sure I was at the back of the group — making sure none of the kids got left behind.’ He tipped a thumb at his comrades. ‘Anyway, these all ran ahead of me, and I couldn’t keep up. But when we got to the door, someone called out from behind me to leave it open. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I think about it, I am not sure who it was.’

  Doukas butted in with a question before Falconer could.

  ‘Can you describe who you saw?’

  Falconer glared at the Greek, but let it go. It was what he would have asked. The boy thought for a moment.

  ‘I can only say that he had a cloak or a long robe on — grey, with the hood up.’

  He looked pleadingly at Falconer.

  ‘I was drunk. It was all unclear to me, and still is, even now.’

  Falconer knew he would not get much more from him or any of the others.

  *

  ‘I questioned the others, but it was no use. They didn’t see the intruder either, nor heard the confrontation with Bukwode that led to his death.’

  Falconer was in the hall of the castle, apprising Peter Bullock of what he had learned. Doukas sat in the background, his record of the interrogations firmly stowed in his satchel. He was offering no opinions of his own, and Falconer wondered whether he was saving his thoughts for his master, the Chancellor of England. Brother Aldwyn sat in the shadows apparently immersed in his copy of Merlin’s Prophecies. The constable stomped back and forth in front of Falconer unable to contain his agitation.

  ‘Damn it. This is the last thing I need at the present. I have a town full of people afraid to show their noses outside their front door in case they get the plague. And now I have a murderer running amok.’

  Falconer tried to calm his friend down.

  ‘Hardly running amok. If it is the same person who stole the other books, this is the first time he has killed, and that is only because he was caught in the act. Besides, on the other matter, you should be glad everyone is staying indoors. Better that than hammering on the town’s gates demanding to be let out, and spreading the pox across England.’

  Bullock sighed, and dropped into his favourite chair. He felt an ache in his chest, and his left arm tingled. Absently, he began to rub away the pain in his arm.

  ‘You’re right, William. I only wish that I knew who this thief was. A grey cloak is all you have as a description?’

  ‘Yes, it’s not much to work on but …’

  As Falconer expressed his fears about the poor scraps of information he had to work on, Aldwyn’s voice piped up from the other side of the hall.

  ‘Could it have been a grey habit, not a cloak?’

  Bullock frowned, peering into the shadows where the old monk sat.

  ‘The grey habit of a Franciscan, are you saying?’

  By way of reply, Aldwyn pointed a finger down at the book in his lap.

  ‘Listen to this. It comes a little later in the prophecies, but it may be relevant.’

  He began reciting in a low, sepulchral tone.

  ‘“Piety will frown upon the man who has inherited goods from the impious; that is, until he takes his style of dress from his own father. Girded around with a wild boar’s teeth, he shall climb over the mountain summits and higher than the shadow of the Helmeted Man.”’

  Bullock growled in frustration.

  ‘You’ll have to explain that to me, brother. I’m only a simple warrior and constable, and it doesn’t make sense. What has that to do with our murderer being a Greyfriar?’

  Falconer, who had understood Aldwyn, intervened in order to help.

  ‘I think Aldwyn is suggesting that the book thief is a pious man who has set his mind against those who have garnered their books and learning from the impious. Mathematics learned from the Arab Al-Khwarizmi, for example, or medicine from the ancients who lived before Christ. I can understand that, but the stuff about wild boar’s teeth is beyond me.’

  Aldwyn leaned forward into the light of the fire.

  ‘It may be a simple mistake on the part of whoever wrote down Merlin’s prophecies. The text calls for the impious to adopt the dress of his father, which is girded around with wild boar’s teeth. Now Saint Anthony tamed a wild boar during his temptations. So you could say the reference is to St Anthony, who was a Franciscan.’ He stopped a moment and frowned. ‘Except it was another Anthony — St Anthony of Padua — who was brought into the order by St Francis himself. That is why I say it may merely be a mistake in the text that still identifies the book-thief and now murderer as a Franciscan.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Feast of St Edith of Winchester, 16th September.

  Saphira Le Veske walked through a deserted Oxford towards Dagville’s Inn. Before she had even reached the crossroads however, she saw Samson wearily dragging himself back to Jewry. His shoulders were slumped even more than was usual in a man of his advanced years. His grey side-locks half-covered his face, but she could see his features were the colour of ash. She raised a hand to touch him, but looking up and realising she was there, he held both his hands up. Warding off her attempt at comfort, he told her the bad news.

  ‘The crusader is dead, and I have wrapped him in a nightgown Dagville provided. You should not touch me before I have removed these clothes and washed. I have told Grace Dagville to burn everything he possessed, and all the bedding he lay on. I must also arrange for the body to be buried.’

  Saphira stood as close as she dared to the disconsolate physician, wishing to ease his burden.

  ‘Let me do that. I will tell the constable what he must do.’

  Samson nodded, and turned back towards Fish Street. Saphira posed a question.

  ‘Will there be more, do you think? How long will we have to wait?’

  Samson paused before answering.

  ‘It could be another ten days before we know for sure if he passed the disease on to others.’ He looked around him at the desolate street. ‘At least Peter Bullock has done what he can, and fear is very useful in these circumstances. If people stay indoors, whoever might have been infected by the crusader will not pass on the pox themselves. Did you wash?’

  Saphira nodded her head, recalling her ritual cleansing the previous day and the good feeling it gave her. She had held her breath under the waters of the mikveh for as long as she could, dragging her mane of red hair under with her. Emerging from the waters had felt like a rebirth, and she had sat by the fire in the hall of her house drying her hair and warming the shivers away from her body. She had busied herself for the rest of the day, and had longed for the closeness of William, but knew he had to be with his charges in Aristotles’ Hall.

  Even so, she longed for their intimacy to be renewed, but then laughed quietly, recalling what he had said a few weeks earlier about Christian exhortations against fornication. He had sat up in her bed, counting off on his fingers the number of reasons given by the church not to have intercourse.

  ‘Never during Lent, Advent, Whitsun week, or Easter week. Nor on feast days, fast days, Sunday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.’

  She had been astonished, but he had not finished.

  ‘Not during daylight, or if you are naked, if you are in church, or at all unless you are trying to produce a child.’ He grinned. ‘St Augustine, poor soul, failed to see what use a woman could be to a man, if one excluded the bearing of children.’

  She remembered fondly what he had then done with her in her bed, with no intention of producing a child, and with both of them naked. Indeed, it had been a Wednesday too, if she recalled it correctly. So many laws broken all at once and so sweetly.
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  This new morning, she now had more serious matters to deal with. After her meeting with Samson, she hurried to the castle to speak to Peter Bullock. Leaving the unnatural quiet of the streets and entering through the gates, she was surprised to see an encampment in the castle’s courtyard. One brightly dressed man was dextrously juggling three coloured balls in the air, and another was tuning a rebec, making the stringed instrument produce strange wails and screeches. From behind the old chapel, a slim figure in tight hose appeared, walking on his hands. Saphira gasped as the saltatore lithely bent backwards, placing his feet on the ground behind him, forming an almost backbreaking arch. The rebec player made his instrument emit a howl of admiration. Saphira was even more surprised when she realised ‘he’ was a woman, who proceeded to perform three back flips across the courtyard to land on her feet in front of her.

  ‘Mistress, are you seeking the constable?’

  Saphira saw that the slender woman was older than she had thought, with crow’s feet defining the edges of her grey eyes. She was not much younger than Saphira was, and suddenly, Saphira felt even more envious of her suppleness and slim figure.

  Margaret Peper saw the admiration in the red-haired woman’s eyes as she looked her up and down. She picked up a modest skirt from the ground, and wrapped it round her hose-clad legs, pulling a face.

  ‘I could bend my body much further than that ten years ago. And what I can do now is bought with endless, grinding exercise. Don’t envy me that, mistress.’ She cocked a thumb at the building behind her.

  ‘The constable has allowed us to rest here, as we cannot leave the town. He is in the great hall.’

  Margaret slid gracefully away, to help an older woman who was breaking some bread up for the troupe of players. Saphira carried on her way towards Peter Bullock’s spartan quarters. Inside the great hall there was almost as strange an assembly as out in the courtyard. Close by the fire that glowed dull red in the centre of the hall sat an old monk in black robes, his head bowed over a leather tome. He was reading to a stocky, black-haired man with the swarthy skin of someone from the Mediterranean. As she entered, this man’s black eyes swivelled in her direction. She felt a shiver run down her back from the cold, calculating look. Peter Bullock descended the stairs from the solar that he rarely used in normal times. Perhaps having unwelcome guests had driven him to the retreat. He lumbered across the hall with that familiar gait of his that brought comfort to the minds of the citizens of Oxford. He was a big, elderly bear of a man keeping calm and good sense in the streets at night. Today, he looked more pleased than usual to see Saphira.