by Ian Morson
‘Will Plome was discovered in St Frideswide’s Church with the books from the last theft, and blood on his hands.’
‘But your instinct tells you that he was not the murderer?’
Falconer nodded in reply to Saphira’s enquiry, and took the food she had prepared.
‘I knew him as a person who cared for the horse that the troupe had to pull their cart in better days. And he took great care of a little monkey he called Ham. I cannot see him beating a man’s brains out.’
‘Then you should trust your instincts and seek out the real killer.’
Falconer had known that she would cut through the obscuring fog of Bullock’s stubbornness and Aldwyn’s prophetic maunderings. Though, concerning the latter, he thought there might be an inkling of truth in them. He smiled ruefully.
‘All I need to do is find a prince of bronze, who will stand guard at our gates. We have his horse, so perhaps he will come to retrieve it.’
He broke some of the fine white bread and laid a slice of beef on it before hungrily putting it in his mouth. Saphira poured him some of her own red wine, and then sat down opposite him with her own goblet. She took a deep draft, and sighed. Falconer was aware for the first time that she appeared distracted. He wondered if she was feeling ill, and he felt a hand clutching at his heart. He leaned forward in his chair, putting the pewter platter down on the floor.
‘Is there anything wrong, Saphira? You’re not feeling … ill, are you?’
She looked at him, at first puzzled by his enquiry. Then she laughed gently.
‘No, there is nothing to fear on that matter.’ She pulled a face. ‘But there is a rumour going around concerning the parliament the king has just called.’
Falconer knew immediately that she meant a rumour circulating amongst the Jews of Oxford. King Edward had shown himself to be, if not exactly an enemy of the Jews, then certainly not a friend. And Jews relied on the king for protection. Many years ago, they had been accepted in England because of their ability to lend money with interest — a practice which was forbidden Christians. Barons, needing to finance armies and go on crusade, made use of the Jews, sometimes to immoderate levels. More recently though, Jewish bonds had been changing hands as richer men bought up poorer landowners’ debts with the aim of ousting them from their lands. Edward needed to tax these very men who were being bankrupted to pay his own debts to Italian moneylenders such as the Riccardis. It wasn’t difficult to see where the king was proposing to go, and Saphira explained her fellow Jews’ worries.
‘It is thought that Edward will abolish all the debt, and even stop Jews from lending money altogether. If so, it will be impossible for many to make a living in England.’
The implication for herself and Falconer hung in the air between them like a dark storm cloud. What he feared the most seemed to be coming to fruition. He hesitated a while, but then asked the question foremost on his mind.
‘What will you do?’
Her face took on a solemn cast.
‘It may come to the point where what I wish to do is irrelevant. If we are no longer of use to the king, we may be expelled from England.’
Chapter Fifteen
The Feast of St Hygbald, 18th September
Whenever Edward was vexed he resorted to his precious copy of “The Histories of the Kings of Britain”. And he was particularly vexed right now. Robert Burnell had nothing to report on the situation in Oxford due to its self-imposed isolation. Burnell’s creature was supposed to resolve the problem the king had with all due haste. But the outbreak of pox had thrown a veil over the proceedings. Eleanor was avoiding him, as she always did when she was big with child. Not that she was all that large yet, being no more than three months gone, if the physicks were to be trusted. He suspected she was just keeping out of his way because of his bad mood, not realising she was making matters worse by doing so. No, he had to admit the root cause was firstly the problems with the Jews, and secondly his confrontation with Llewellyn and the Welsh nation generally. So he had shut himself away in his private solar at Woodstock and placed Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book on his reading stand. Four lit candles cast an extravagant light on the pages. He first opened it at one of his favourite passages describing tourneys and games such as he used to indulge in himself. He traced his finger along the page, which was already stained with this repeated act, and read out loud Geoffrey’s description of King Arthur’s tourney.
‘Presently the knights engage in a game on horseback, making show of fighting a battle whilst the dames and damsels looking on do cheer them on for the sake of seeing the better sport. Others elsewhere spend the day in shooting arrows, some in tilting with spears, some in flinging heavy stones, some in putting the weight.’
Earlier that year he had taken part in a tournament in France that some had dubbed the “Little Battle of Châlons”. A French count had all but tried to murder him during it, and the courtly battle had degenerated into a full skirmish. Even the thought of it now stirred his blood, and he turned the pages to read another favourite passage — Arthur’s encounter with a giant. Once more the stain of his passing finger marked the passage.
‘Arthur, swiftly bestirring him with his sword, hacked the accursed monster first in one place and then in another, and gave him no respite until at last he smote him a deadly buffet on the head, and buried the whole breadth of his sword in his brain-pan.’
Mimicking Arthur’s action, Edward swung his sword arm down in the killing blow. He almost felt the judder up his arm as the sword’s arc was stopped by the giant’s skull. He gasped in satisfaction.
‘You know, my Lord, that scholars say that Geoffrey’s book is mere fancy. A fantasist’s desire to raise his fellow Welshmen up from their lowly and ignorant status to the heights of founders of Britain. That he should portray Arthur as a Briton who fought against our Anglo-Saxon forefathers was unforgiveable.’
Edward hadn’t heard his chancellor, Robert Burnell, entering his chamber. The damned fellow sneaked hither and thither without even disturbing the air he breathed. Indeed Edward wondered if he even did that as breathing was the pursuit of a normal man. Burnell appeared to be a wraith.
‘Yes, yes, I know. William of Newburgh was at pains to say so fifty years after the book became known. But his opinion matters not a jot. Too many people wanted it to be true for any petulant scholar to ruin its appeal. But that is why I wanted to talk to you, Burnell.’
For once his chancellor was confused.
‘What is, my Lord?’
Edward smiled easily at the thought he had kept Burnell on the hop.
‘I want to go to Glastonbury before I take any action against the Welsh.’
Edward’s intentions appeared to dawn on Burnell, who smiled.
‘Ah. Just as your great-grandfather, Henry, saw a benefit in the monks at Glastonbury finding the skeletons of Arthur and Guivenere, you too wish to lay the ghost of the legendary king.’
‘Yes. Henry had his own problems with the Welsh at the time, and a skeleton of Arthur was proof positive that he was dead, and could not rise again as the legend goes to help the Britons or the Welsh in their hour of need. I need to do the same.’
Edward closed his favourite book firmly and doused a couple of the candles with the flat of his hand. No point in wasting good candles on Burnell, who could probably see in the dark anyway. The two extinguished wicks streamed smoke for a while, leaving the distinctive smell of wax in the air of the room. Burnell remained standing by the door through which he had entered, his hands clasped over his stomach. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and unemotional.
‘If you ordered Arthur’s tomb to be opened, you would reveal the wondrous large bones of the king, and those of Guinevere of marvellous beauty. I suggest it be done at twilight to heighten the dramatic effect. Then you and the queen could wrap the bones in silk and have them reinterred, leaving the skulls on permanent display outside the tomb on account of popular devotion.’
Edward paused
a moment, seeing how perfect such a ceremony would be. Then he sighed. Burnell’s account of what could be done at Glastonbury was so clever, he realised that his chancellor had planned it long ago. Long before Edward had even thought of the ploy. He had not caught Burnell out after all, and would have to find some other way of disconcerting the man.
‘Tell me about matters in Oxford.’
*
Eventually, Falconer managed to have a talk with Geoffrey Westhalf concerning what he might or might not have heard on the night Edmund Ludlow was murdered. He had been surprised to discover that the youth had returned to his lodgings in Beke’s Inn. He had at first knocked on the door of Nevill’s Inn next door, expecting Westhalf to be there still. He had half assumed he would have to badger Chetwyn into allowing him to see the boy. The last time they had spoken, Chetwyn seemed to think Falconer should not bother Westhalf due to the moneyed nature of his father. The shutter at the upper window of Nevill’s Inn opened in response to his knocking, and he squinted upwards. The head of Robert Chetwyn hung out of the window staring down suspiciously at him.
‘What do you want, Falconer?’
‘To speak with Geoffrey Westhalf, if I may.’
‘You know my opinion on that. However, the decision as to whether you can speak to him or not, is no longer in my hands.’
‘Oh, why is that?’
‘Because the boy no longer resides in Nevill’s Inn.’
Without further explanation, the head bobbed back inside and the shutter slammed to. With no more information as to Westhalf’s actual whereabouts, Falconer resorted to the only other option he had. With the town gates closed, Westhalf could only have gone to one other place, even if it was a bizarre relocation. He walked the few paces to Beke’s Inn, and once again knocked. After a short silence, he heard the sound of booted feet approaching the other side of the solid door. A voice called sharply out.
‘Who is there?’
‘Geoffrey Westhalf? It is Regent Master Falconer. I have come with the agreement of the constable to speak to you about the other night.’
There was a long pause, and Falconer was just about to speak again, when he heard a bolt being withdrawn, and the door creaked open. Westhalf looked pale and he glared at Falconer suspiciously.
‘What do you want … sir?’
He added the final word almost as an afterthought, and Falconer reacted to the insolence.
‘I am here to seek the truth concerning Edmund Ludlow’s murder, Westhalf. Which you would do well to remember.’
The young man’s eyes glittered with the heat of some inner passion.
‘Which truth is that, master? The conjunctive or disjunctive truth?’
Falconer was disconcerted for a moment, until he recalled his last encounter with Westhalf in his class on sophisma. So much had happened since that he had forgotten the confrontation between Westhalf and Peter Mithian. The intellectual puzzle set by Falconer had resulted in Westhalf being called a donkey. Clearly the young man before him had taken the joke to heart so much that it had seethed in his breast and grown to something unbearable. But Falconer was not to be diverted from his task by the feelings of this overwrought youth.
‘A sophism is merely one way to come to the truth by examination. So let us examine the facts about Master Ludlow’s death.’
Westhalf pulled a sneering face, but stood his ground at the halfopen door. He clearly had no intention of allowing Falconer in, so the regent master continued the conversation from where he stood. If Westhalf was fearful of being in close proximity to another person, it was not an uncommon feeling at present.
‘What did you hear the night that your master was murdered?’
The youth’s eyes were cast down, as if he was plundering his memory and trying to dredge up whatever he could. He held back so long that Falconer thought he had decided not to speak. Then he raised his red-rimmed eyes to the regent master and replied.
‘I heard nothing until I awoke, and then I heard horse’s hooves in the lane. I thought it was perhaps the sound that had awoken me. With the plague abroad, it was odd to hear anything outside at all, and I got up.’
He paused, and Falconer urged him to continue, though the look in the boy’s eyes as he recalled that night was of fear. No, perhaps not fear but awe.
‘I sleep at the back of the house behind the hall. I heard another sound like the passage of angels, and got up to see.’
‘Angels? What sound do angels make?’
Falconer was beginning to be sceptical of the youth’s account. He was clearly overexcited still, and ascribing the most mystical of causes to the sound of the fleeing murderer. Westhalf’s look hardened at the obvious expression of disbelief from the regent master. He blushed and muttered his reply.
‘A whispering sound that no earthly step could imitate.’
Falconer thought that in his experience a good thief could glide over strewn floor rushes and not disturb them much. But he did not say as such, and Westhalf concluded his account.
‘I peeped through the archway into the hall, but there was no-one to be seen. It was then I saw the blood dripping from above. A rain of blood from the solar where Master Ludlow was sleeping.’
He glanced nervously over his shoulder back into the darkness of the hall behind him. He must have been remembering the sight of the blood, and thinking of angels. In his present condition, Falconer doubted that the youth should be staying where he was. But when he offered to take Westhalf to the castle instead, the youth went pale and clutched the frame of the door.
‘No! It is not safe. I saw …’
‘You saw what?’
Geoffrey Westhalf lowered his eyes, and shook his head.
‘I saw nothing.’
Then the door was closed, and he was gone.
*
‘He sounded afraid to be where he was, and yet more afraid to come out into the streets. And who could blame him at the moment.’
This was Bullock’s sensible comment on hearing Falconer summation of Westhalf’s story. Doukas laid his quill down, and pushed his parchment aside for the ink to dry. He had made careful note of Westhalf’s evidence as he had done with everything that had happened since his enforced incarceration in the town. He had asserted that his master, Chancellor Burnell, would wish to know everything concerning the thefts and subsequent sequence of murders. But as Falconer scanned the spidery script of the Greek, he wondered what story would emerge from the series of notes. Doukas was offering no opinion on who might be the killer, though he already had a pouch full of scribbled interviews. Perhaps William de Bosco’s tenure at the university was due to come to a close soon. That thought reminded Falconer that he owed the university chancellor an update on what he had discovered about the spate of thefts and murders. Even if the only fact was that Constable Bullock suspected a simple-minded member of a troupe of actors, acrobats and musicians of being the perpetrator. He wished he had more to tell de Bosco, and slumped by the fire in Bullock’s great hall.
The shadows of evening stretched across the rough stone floor, and Doukas turned to Aldwyn, who sat beneath the west-facing window to catch the last rays of the setting sun.
‘What do the prophecies tell us, brother monk?’
Doukas’s rough, accented voice roused the elderly monk from his reverie, and he eagerly flicked the heavy pages of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s tome.
‘I had been pondering that question, master scribe, and seeking to interpret the riddles Merlin presents us with. The Man of Bronze has put in an appearance, and none can deny the probable truth of the line, “Death will lay hold of the people and destroy all the nations”. Some in the past thought that referred to the end of the world, but we can now see it is specifically about Oxford. The nations that the students at the university divide themselves into stand to be destroyed, if the plague takes a hold.’
Falconer interrupted the monk’s doom-laden maunderings.
‘But it has not yet happened, thanks to Peter’s act
ions.’
He glanced over at Bullock, who appeared to be asleep in his chair. Aldwyn waved aside Falconer’s protests, however.
‘We shall soon see about that.’ He tapped a bony finger on the page of the book. ‘Each prophecy has come true so far.’
Doukas chuckled.
‘Then read on, Aldwyn, and tell us what is to come next.’
‘That is what I was about to do, Greekling. And it has come already, if I read the meaning right.’
Falconer was becoming increasingly frustrated at these mystical pronouncements of the monk’s.
‘What has already come about?’
Aldwyn lowered his eyes to the book in his lap, and by the red glow of the dying sun recited the next lines.
‘“The North Wind will rise, snatching away the flowers which the West Wind has caused to bloom. There will be gilding in the temples …”’
‘What on earth does that mean? It’s gibberish.’
Aldwyn glared at Falconer.
‘It is obvious that the North Wind represents the cleansing air of piety that is blowing away the growing evil of spurious knowledge that certain minds have nurtured in order to challenge God’s creation.’
Falconer thought of Fulbert’s condemnation of people like himself and Roger Bacon and their thirst for empirical knowledge. He wanted to challenge Aldwyn, but the monk was in full flow.
‘The gilding of the temple refers to this wrapping of alchemy and science in appealing garlands. But the next prophecy is to be heeded well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘ “But the sword’s cutting edge will not cease its work.” ’
*
The crypt was cold place at night, but Will Plome was used to hiding away in the Holy Hole in St Frideswide’s Church, so this was like home to him. He lay curled up in a corner on a sack of straw that the constable had thrown in after him. Then the old man had locked the door. Since then, only Agnes had come to see how he was. She told him that John Peper and the others were angry with him for not doing what he had been sent to do.