Falconer and the Rain of Blood

by Ian Morson

  ‘What is all this?’

  Falconer grinned broadly.

  ‘Wait a moment and all will be made clear.’

  Peper’s little troupe of players, whose backcloth the bucolic scene was, were busying themselves around their cart. They pulled out masks and costumes, some of which they discarded. Others they distributed amongst themselves. They were so engrossed in their task that they failed to see the three people coming through the castle gate. They were halfway across the courtyard before Agnes Cheke looked up from her task of selecting a sword made of wood from the stack of make-believe weapons. Their real sword had disappeared the other night, and Agnes didn’t want anyone to know in case they thought Will had it and had used it. Then, when she saw the rotund figure next to Saphira Le Veske, she threw the wooden sword on the ground.

  ‘Will Plome! Wherever have you been?’

  She rushed across the courtyard, and almost bowled the young man over. She embraced him firmly before standing back and playfully boxing his ears.

  ‘Thought you could step out on your own, did you? Since you learned to read, you thought you were better than us.’

  Will Plome blushed, and shook his head vigorously until Agnes thought it might come off. She grasped it in both hands and plonked a kiss on the boy’s forehead. John Peper, who by now had crossed the courtyard with the rest of the troupe, wasn’t so forgiving. He waved a finger at the runaway.

  ‘You still have a lot to answer for, Will Plome, what with all these murders. Not to mention the money I gave you to prepare the way for us in Marcham and Abingdon.’

  Plome hung his head.

  ‘Sorry, Master Peper. But the Devil has been on my tail, and I could not help myself.’

  He cast a wary glance around him for, though Saphira had convinced him that the Devil would not harm him, his emergence from the Holy Hole had caused him some trepidation. Especially when it turned out that his nemesis, Yaxley, was going to accompany the woman to wherever she was taking him. He recognised some of the other people in the courtyard. His fellow players, naturally, and Master Falconer, who always came to their pageants when they came to Oxford. And Yaxley, with his sour face. And the pretty woman with red hair who had enticed him out of his hiding place. She was Jewish, but could not be the Devil, even though the priests said Satan came in all sorts of pleasing disguises. Now, the old monk could be the Devil in disguise, as his face looked sombre enough. But surely even if the monk were the Devil, he could easily outrun such an old man, so that didn’t matter. He was not so certain of the stocky, dark-skinned man dressed in a leather tunic standing next to the monk. He looked fearsome, especially when he grinned, as he was doing now. Just as he thought he had weighed up the possible incarnations of the Devil present in the courtyard, two other men hurried in from the street. One was a Franciscan monk dressed in grey robes. He strode straight over to Falconer.

  ‘I hope taking me away from my devotions has a purpose to it, Falconer. Burewald, here...’ He indicated the other man who had entered the courtyard along with him. ‘… said it was essential that I come.’

  Thomas Burewald, acting constable, shrugged his shoulders in resignation at Falconer, showing what a hard task it had been to get Fulbert to come to the castle. Falconer remained unperturbed.

  ‘Indeed it was, Brother Fulbert. And just as soon as another guest arrives, we can begin.’

  Falconer had added to the invited audience the name of one of the proctors, Roger Plumpton. Since speaking to the chancellor, he had learned that the proctor had been very close to Robert Burnell when he had been in Oxford. Falconer suspected him of being somehow involved in events, and so had sent a message to the chancellor asking that Plumpton represent the university at an event in connection with Peter Bullock’s funeral. He had silently asked forgiveness of Peter for using his name in this way. In a way there had been some truth in what he had said. Bullock would be buried on the morrow, come what may.

  For a while, Falconer felt anxious that Plumpton would not come, and the rest of the assembly were beginning to get restless, then finally the proctor’s plump figure appeared in the gateway of the castle. The assembly was complete, and Falconer was relieved.

  ‘Master Plumpton, welcome. We were about to begin without you.’

  Plumpton wiped some beads of sweat off his upper lip, and looked around nervously.

  ‘Doesn’t this gathering contravene the constable’s proscription on assembly? I know the man is dead, but the plague is still lurking about, is it not?’

  Saphira tried to settle the man’s nerves.

  ‘I can assure you, master, that the plague will soon have run its course. If there are no more cases in the next day or two, Peter Bullock’s action will have been vindicated. Don’t you agree, Thomas?’

  She looked towards Burewald, the acting constable, and he nodded gravely.

  ‘It would appear so, mistress. We know how Sal Dockerel and Peggy Jardine came by the plague, and we can guess that the crusader knight’s passing through the market was what infected Geoffrey Westhalf, Alice Lane – who her family say was out buying fish – and …’ His voice broke slightly, but he managed to continue. ‘… my own brother, John Burewald. We know of nobody else.’

  Fulbert’s harsh voice broke in.

  ‘Your list is not complete, Burewald. Only yesterday one of our friars showed the symptoms of red plague.’ He raised a hand to stop the outburst that was to come from Burewald’s lips. ‘You were to be informed, and I can assure you that the brother is isolated and being cared for. He too was probably in the market on that fateful day. He replenishes our larder when we run short of our own produce.’

  Saphira stepped in to emphasise what she had said.

  ‘So you can see all the cases are of people who caught the plague from the knight. No new cases have been reported, and if none are by tomorrow, I dare say Master Burewald can lift the proscription on meetings and movement. And we can all thank Peter Bullock for our salvation.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Falconer spoke in the most solemn tones he could muster.

  ‘The prophecies of Merlin have seemed to be fulfilled in the last few days. So in order to solve the riddle of the murders that have been taking place, I examined the text closely for clues. In the process I made a startling discovery. But to make it clear, I must go back in time and show the truth of the prophecies.’

  Falconer opened the heavy tome in his hands, and cradled it on his left arm. He turned the pages until he found the point in the text he wanted, and looked over at Peper’s troupe of players. John Peper nodded and the actors retreated behind the backcloth. A breeze suddenly blew across the courtyard, and fluttered the cloth causing the fields painted on it to ripple slightly. To Saphira’s eyes it made the vista look as though it was seen through a heat haze. Falconer began to intone the words of Merlin’s prophecies.

  ‘“The island shall be called by the name of Brutus; and the name given it by foreigners shall be abolished. There shall be peace in his time; and corn shall abound by reason of the fruitfulness of the soil.”’

  John Peper emerged from behind the cloth methodically swinging a scythe with a wooden blade, emulating the actions of a reaper. Falconer continued his recitation.

  ‘“Luxury shall overspread the whole ground; and fornication not cease to debauch mankind. All these things shall three ages see; till the buried kings shall be exposed to public view in London. Famine shall again return; mortality shall return; and the inhabitants shall grieve for the destruc-tion of their cities.”’

  Continuing the mime mirroring Falconer’s words, Margaret Peper sauntered over to her husband, swinging her hips. She pressed herself against his thigh, and he dropped his scythe. Saphira heard the indrawn breath of Brother Fulbert expressing his disapproval of such a lewd display. He might have intervened, but suddenly a figure leapt out from behind the cloth, and everyone gasped in horror. The masked man with the lanky build of Robert Kemp the juggler capered around the
Pepers. His mask was in the form of a skull with a broad set of sharpened, white teeth and gaping blank eye-sockets. Two enormous ram’s horns protruded from the brow of the devilish head. The Pepers fell in a heap to designate their mortality. Further emphasising the point in a reference to the current plight of the inhabitants of Oxford, Agnes Cheke staggered across the scene, red spots painted all over her face. It was a chilling reminder of the plague that still stalked the streets.

  Thomas Burewald watched and was puzzled. The Le Veske woman had said it was important to get the Franciscan to come to the castle, and that Falconer was going to solve the riddle of the book thief murders. He had immediately assumed that she meant Falconer suspected Fulbert, and merely needed to lure him to the castle in order to incarcerate him. Yet here they all were indulging in some play-acting concerning a book of prophecies. Falconer looked to be unconcerned about a murderer being on the loose, let alone the persistent fear of catching the plague. But he recalled, however, that Bullock had told him how, no matter how mad the regent master’s schemes seemed, they always got results. So he held back on his worries, and continued to watch in silence. He still shivered at the sight of the pox-marked woman, even though it was fakery, and moved a little further away from the other observers of Falconer’s pageant.

  Falconer lowered his gaze to the book, and carried on reading.

  ‘“Then shall come the lion, who shall recall the scattered flocks to the pasture they had lost. His breast shall be food to the hungry, and his tongue drink to the thirsty. Out of his mouth shall flow rivers that shall water the parched jaws of men.”’

  Robert Kemp, the tallest of the players, had donned a white tabard with the Cross of St George emblazoned on it. He wore a crown and clearly was meant to represent him, who was once called Longshanks, and was now Edward, King of England. He strutted amongst the other players who mimed drawing refreshment from his generous gestures. But there was to be a darkness on the horizon. Simon Godrich, clad all in red, lurked at one side of the bucolic backcloth. Falconer carried on his recitation.

  ‘“A red dragon will next dwell in the death. For plague shall again return; mortality shall return; and the inhabitants shall grieve for the destruc-tion of their city.”’

  Once more, John and Margaret Peper, and Agnes Cheke fell dead to the ground.

  ‘“But another dragon without wings will arise to replace the Red Dragon, sneaking in the city unknown.”’

  Another mysterious figure stepped from behind the curtain, he was large and clad in a black cloak with the hood half-obscuring his face. What was visible revealed a skeleton-like mask. Saphira was as shaken as the other members of the audience to this strange pageant. All the players were on the stage, so who could this mysterious figure be? The implication of William’s introduction was that this was truly the murderer. Falconer smiled fleetingly at the effect he had created, and went on.

  ‘Listen well to this section of the prophecies. “After this shall be produced a tree upon the four square …” This can only be Carfax, surely. “ … which having no more than three branches, shall overshadow the surface of the city with the breadth of its leaves. Its adversary, the North wind, shall come upon it, and with its noxious blast shall snatch away the three branches.”’

  Here Falconer paused to ensure he had everyone’s attention. Then he went on.

  ‘“The first will wither from a surfeit of learning. Then the second shall perish in its own red sap: pallor and dread will be clear to see on its leaves. The third shall die a sudden death, its very core not able to stand the terror.”’

  All those present clearly understood the prophecies had identified the last three people killed. Edmund Ludlow, Gerard Anwell, and Peter Bullock. Falconer’s reading continued inexorably though.

  ‘“He will seek out the lion, killing as he goes. He will pursue the Lion through all the narrow byways of the city, but in the end he will break his horns against the walls of Oxford.”’

  The strange hooded figure chased Robert Kemp from the stage and disappeared behind the backcloth. There was a momentary silence, before a babble of voice broke out. Thomas Burewald’s voice climbed above them all, a note of exasperation in it.

  ‘But then who was behind the mask of death, Falconer? What is the identity of the killer?’

  Saphira, herself perplexed by William’s play-acting, suddenly saw a movement at the back of the crowd of onlookers. It was Will Plome, blending back into the audience, a grin on his face. She realised who had played the murderer in front of the backcloth, and marvelled that no-one had seen him slip away before his entrance. Falconer raised his hands, and the babble of questions was slowly silenced.

  ‘The murderer’s identity is still clouded in obscurity, and I shall need time to interpret the prophecies. I do believe that Peter Bullock knew, and shall keep his body company tonight. I shall pray that he makes it clear who killed him and the others. Tomorrow we shall bury him with all due solemnity.’

  The disparate group of people, each wary of his companion whether from fear of plague or suspicions that he might be the murderer, began to disperse. Saphira sidled over to Falconer, and whispered in his ear.

  ‘That was very a very sly move. I suppose you now expect the real killer to show himself to you tonight in the chapel.’

  Falconer merely smiled, and tipped his head to one side in an irritating gesture. Saphira punched him lightly on the arm.

  ‘All I can say is, for your own sake, if not for mine, take care. He still wishes to kill you.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The chapel was a cold place, and Falconer had availed himself of a homespun cloak to wrap around him. Even so the stone floor seeped cold into his legs as he was kneeling before the altar. Peter Bullock’s body lay on the altar shrouded now in white linen. His face covered, his outline blurred by the shroud, Bullock had ceased to be the person Falconer had known for almost twenty years. And for that transformation, he was grateful. He could not have borne to look upon his old friend all through the night of his lonely vigil. But he did start recalling some of the more remarkable events they had been involved in.

  ‘Remember when I made you lock Smith gate so that we could catch a murderer? We ended up causing a student riot that day which will go down in history. I think you forgave me – after a year or two. We failed to see eye to eye so many times, but it didn’t interfere with our friendship, did it? Remember when the Jews attacked Edward Petysance parading his relic down Fish Street. It was a provocation the young hotheads in the community could not stand. And one of them paid for it with his life. You were glad that only one death had occurred and told me it could have been worse. I suppose my observation that it couldn’t have been worse for the young Jew who died was a little intemperate. Even if it was true.’

  Falconer stopped his muttered reminiscences, imagining he had heard a noise close by. He glanced nervously at the body on the altar, wondering if Bullock had moved in protest at his affirmation of being in the right after all this time. He held his breath, but when nothing else stirred, he began again, recalling more pleasant memories for a change. The two candles set at Bullock’s head and feet slowly began to burn down.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, or even if he had fallen asleep, but he was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. His knees ached, but he didn’t move, merely contenting himself with a slight turn of his neck to the left and then to the right. Looking out the corner of his eye over his right shoulder, he could just discern a darker shape in the darkness of the recesses of the chapel. He wasn’t wearing his eye-glasses, so he could not make it out clearly, but he imagined that the figure didn’t intend for him to see itself properly just yet. He spoke out, and his voice echoed in the cold and oppressive space.

  ‘Is that you come to see if the constable has spoken to me yet? Told me your name – the name of his murderer?’

  There was no reply but he could hear the sound of someone moving closer to him. The whisper of ligh
t feet on stone slabs, and of a long cloak dragging over them. He felt an ache in the centre of his back, but schooled himself not to turn round. He would show no fear, though it shot through his veins like a stab of lightning. If the apparition would not speak to him, then he would to it.

  ‘There are several names that Peter could have whispered in my ear. Friar Fulbert, for example, or Richard Yaxley. They both profess to despise scientific learning, or the esoteric knowledge of the ancients, but something didn’t ring true for me especially about other things the killer should have known and they didn’t. Still, they could be responsible. One of their names could be yours. Or are you Roger Plumpton? Did you sell your soul to Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England, in return for future favours? De Bosco told me that it was Plumpton who gave Burnell the selected names of Welsh scholars who might stir up Oxford, if the king ever invaded Wales, and who could cause trouble for Edward. Names like Bukwode, Anwell and Ludlow. I might have been on that list as my mother was Welsh too.’

  Falconer heard a grunt from the ghost standing behind him. It sounded like surprise, and he smiled.

  ‘But then you didn’t know that, did you? That I had Welsh ancestry. How could you, as even I didn’t know until two weeks ago. Until the town was closed up because of the red plague, in fact. Roger Plumpton certainly didn’t know’

  This gibe brought a response from the lurking figure, who spoke in a hoarse and clearly disguised voice.