by Ian Morson
‘Don’t you realise that you were my target all along, Falconer? You have attracted the displeasure of the highest in the land, who wishes to be rid of you. All the rest has just been to sow seeds of doubt and confusion.’
Falconer tried to ease his frozen legs that seemed locked in place as he answered the taunt.
‘Oh yes, I became suspicious of the play-acting that you indulged in, when I saw how you seemed to actually want to be seen at the place of each murder. We will leave John Bukwode out of this, because although he is Welsh and had many esoteric texts in his possession, I think he only gave you your initial idea for confusing the constable. Geoffrey Westhalf killed Bukwode in a blind panic at being discovered stealing. Your first murder was that of Edmund Ludlow, where you ensured the fulfilment of one of Merlin’s prophecies with your arrival on horseback – the Man of Bronze. You thus ensured Ludlow’s neighbours would hear the horse, and remember it. It was only a curious coincidence that the original thief, Westhalf, was in the hall too. As for Anwell’s murder, I guess you thought that someone whose head was chopped off would easily be found, and associated with another prophecy. Unfortunately, the find was not immediately made because of Anwell’s reclusive nature. But eventually it was, and caused the sort of stir you had anticipated. So that all turned out well. But your attempt on my life was the most dramatic. Who was supposed to see the prophetic figure clad in a corselet of metal and wood? One of my students perhaps, or a neighbour such as Thomas Symon? It was the latter who did see you, by the way. Then Bullock went and spoiled it all, for he recognised you, didn’t he? And for that he had to die. But by then the whole sorry mess had given you away to me. As I was sceptical of Merlin’s prophecies being anything more than a fantasy weaved by poets and the deluded, I could not believe they were coming true. But what it did confirm for me was that whoever was playing out this fantasy, knew the prophecies well enough to copy them. Everything pointed at you.’
Falconer now looked over his shoulder, and saw that the figure had hidden his face in the Devil’s mask from the players’ cart – a hideous, sharp-toothed visage with ram’s horns sticking out of the temple. The Devil growled in anger and launched himself at the kneeling Falconer, who tried to rise and avoid the attacker. But his knees, long bent before the altar where the body of Peter Bullock lay, would not respond. Falconer fell backwards, thinking he had misjudged his situation and was about to die. A dagger appeared in the devil’s right hand, its blade glittering in the candlelight. Falconer fell against the altar, and held up his arm in a hopeless gesture of self-defence. Then just before his attacker was on him, a shape rose from behind the altar, and with an anguished cry interposed itself between Falconer and the Devil. It was Will Plome, and he had a spear in his hand. It was the spear of Longinus, that the players used in the tableau of the Crucifixion – a poor copy of course, but sturdy enough to kill. Either by accident or by design, the spear got jammed between the base of the altar and the onrushing man. The figure impaled itself on the spear, and with a terrible gurgle, pitched on to the floor, snapping off the thin shaft of the spear as it did so.
Falconer let out a big sigh of relief, and looked at Will, who was on his knees, sucking a splinter out of his hand. He grinned.
‘I killed the devil, Master Falconer.’
Falconer laughed, and clapped Will on the back.
‘You did indeed, Will. Now help me up please, my legs are numb from so much kneeling.’
Once he was up and had shaken his legs do that they functioned again, Falconer stepped over to the prostrate figure on the floor. The Devil lay on his back, with the broken shaft of the spear protruded from his chest. His mask was slightly askew on his face. That had been another clue for Falconer, the masks. Not only had Will claimed to have been pursued by the Devil, but Geoffrey Westhalf had spoken of looking on the face of God. Of course it could have been an hallucination brought on by the boy’s fevered imagination, but Falconer thought it had a more prosaic origin. The players’ mask used in their depiction of God in the mystery plays they performed. Sure what he would see beneath the Devil’s mask, he pulled it away.
Epilogue
The Mass of the Archangels Gabriel and Michael, 29th September. Michaelmas Day
Falconer eased himself up from the saddle of his rouncey, and stretched his legs. The gates of Oxford were once again open, and the outside world beckoned. He was waiting at Eastgate, staring out through the arch at the long road running to the village of Headington and the lands belonging to St Fridewide’s priory. Beyond that the road turned south-east and ran all the way to London. But that was a long way, and Falconer was having difficulty taking the first step. Like a prisoner used to his small cell, who is afraid to emerge into the light, Falconer’s freeing from the confines of Oxford was followed with unease at the broad horizons open to him. His situation was caused by more than Oxford being declared free of the pox. Regent Master William Falconer had taken the extraordinary step of relinquishing his post at the university.
There had been something stirring in his breast for months, if not years, and the nearness of being killed by Isaac Doukas and having Peter Bullock killed in his stead, had brought about its fruition. After conferring with Thomas Burewald, he had agreed that Doukas, coldblooded killer of Peter Bullock and two regent masters, should be buried inconspicuously outside the town walls. His death would be put down to the red plague, and no more action would be taken. What more could they do? He had been the agent of very powerful men who could not be pursued by a mere town constable. And so Doukas had been dispatched at night into an unmarked grave. Peter Bullock’s burial, on the other hand, had been carried out with all the solemnity that the aldermen of Oxford could muster. He had a fitting send-off for such a tireless and uncomplaining servant of the town. Immediately afterwards, Falconer had returned to Aristotle’s Hall, his spirits dampened by the final confirmation the funeral had given that Peter was dead and gone. He retreated to his solar in the eaves of the hall, and examined at his life.
The room was of sufficient size to contain his experiments, but afforded little space for his own comforts. To the left of the chimney breast was a toppling stack of his most cherished books and papers, where standard church works such as the Historia Scholastica were lost and buried under the more used and well-thumbed texts of the Arab mathematician Al-Khowarizmi, medical works, and studies of geography such as De Sphaera Mundi. To the right of the fireplace stood several jars of various sizes, some of which exuded strange aromas. Although Falconer no longer noticed this, they were the first thing most of his visitors commented on – always much to his surprise. In one corner stood his bed, with a small chest at the foot of it. The repository of his worldly possessions, it was depressingly lacking in items. Just a spare undershirt, and a pair of old, worn boots that he was reluctant to throw away. The centre of the room was occupied by a massive oaken table on which was piled a jumble of items, each of some significance to Falconer’s erratic searching for information about the world. There were animal bones, human skulls, small jars of spices, carved wooden figures, bundles of dried herbs, stones that glittered, and lumps of rock sheared off to reveal strange shapes inside their depths. It all looked so shabby, cluttered and irrelevant with his best friend dead. The decision that had been lurking in his mind for months was suddenly made.
Thomas Symon was surprised to find Falconer on his doorstep so soon after the funeral. He had watched his mentor retreating down St John’s Street, not waiting for Thomas, who boarded next door at Colcil Hall, to accompany him. Then, Falconer’s shoulders had been hunched, and his eyes cast down. Now those same eyes sparkled, and his voice was firm.
‘Thomas, I have an offer for you.’
When Falconer laid out his offer, Thomas was astounded and excited in equal degrees. Thomas had been a young student at Oxford only eleven years earlier, and had been rescued from fear, bewilderment, and danger by the man who now stood before him as his friend. Now he was offering him the pla
ce at the head of Aristotle’s Hall with all the treasures it contained, together with the students and responsibility for their tuition.
‘William, I am overwhelmed. What of all your books?’
‘I have taken one. It will be all I need where I am going.’
‘Where is that?’
Falconer smiled at his young companion enigmatically.
‘The world, Thomas.’
Now, he sat astride his horse at the gates of Oxford, looking out on the world beyond the university. He patted his saddlebag, where his few possessions including the sole book he had retained were stowed. His patient waiting gave way to anxiety.
*
Edward’s progression to Glastonbury had begun, and some hundred souls were wending their way down muddy roads that for those at the rear of the long procession were churned into a quagmire. The king and his chancellor, however were at the head, and ignorant of the struggles of the retinue of officials, guards, cooks and scribes. A few years ago, Edward would have relished riding hard towards his destination, for the sheer exhilaration of it. But now, he was king and knew he had to progress at a more stately pace. Still he chafed at the slowness of it all, and the poor companionship that Robert Burnell provided. Edward would have preferred a fellow knight and reminiscences of battles fought. Instead he was getting dull-as-ditchwater reports of civil matters across his realm. Just now Burnell spoke of Oxford.
‘Matters did not resolve themselves as we would have wished in Oxford, my Lord. It turned out that my man was not up to the task.’
Edward turned in his saddle and looked at Burnell, who sat a horse uncomfortably.
‘You mean he did not suppress any possible future rebellion by the unruly Welsh?’
Burnell tilted his head to one side, uncertain how to proceed. He looked around to make sure no other courtier was listening. The business of getting rid of the regent master needed to be kept between him and the king. The complicity could work both ways in the future, binding him more closely to the king, or exposing him to scandal. He leaned over in the saddle until he was almost slipping off the horse’s back.
‘Well that too, though he did make a start by scaring the Welsh masters. Some of them died in horrible circumstances.’
Edward turned his gaze to the front.
‘I don’t wish to know about the means, merely the results. We need to crush the Welsh, wherever they are.’
‘I believe that Oxford has ceased to be a sore upon the backside of England in so far as that goes. But as for Master Falconer …’
Burnell hated admitting defeat, and already had plans to resolve the outstanding matter for the king. So he was surprised at Edward’s next comment.
‘Falconer? Who is he? Another Welshman?’
Burnell gazed hard at Edward, trying to ascertain if he meant what he said. That he didn’t even know who Falconer was. Or was he just playing a game with him? He distinctly recalled the conversation he had had with the king, and the agreement he had made to dispense with the embarrassment that was Falconer. Has the king actually said to get rid of him? Or had he just misconstrued Edward’s wink, and imagined the verbal command? He realised Edward was now looking closely at him.
‘You seem pale Robert. Is the journey too much for you?’
Burnell rushed to put his thoughts in order. Edward for once had caught him on the hop.
‘No, indeed, my Lord. I was just thinking that my creature, the Greekling, clearly misunderstood my commands concerning Oxford. I should not have trusted him. But no matter, no real harm was done, and it was justice of a sort that he succumbed to the small pox.’
‘Good. The matter is settled then.’
Edward turned back to gaze ahead on the road that led to Glastonbury, and a glorious future. He smiled at having run rings round Burnell, who would never know if he had understood his king or not. It didn’t really matter that he had failed, because Edward knew he had resolved the awkwardness with Regent Master Falconer himself. And in a much more subtle way.
*
Falconer breathed a huge sigh of relief. He could see a familiar figure on a white rouncey coming along the High Street. Beneath her black cloak, she was wearing an emerald green dress, that Falconer knew would mirror the colour of her eyes. She had discarded her widow’s white linen snood, preferring to have her red hair unencumbered by anything more than being braided in a thick know down her back. When he had told Saphira Le Veske that he intended to leave Oxford, she had looked concerned, disappointed perhaps. He didn’t know how to ask her to accompany him, fearful she would say no, or would berate him for imagining she was at his back and call. He had confined himself to stating that he would be at Eastgate at midday. She had seemed quite indifferent to him when he left the house in Fish Street. It was with relief that he saw she had taken the hint, and was carrying a saddlebag of her own. Two in fact, slung over the haunches of her sleek mount. He held back from making any comment about the inability of a woman to travel light. In fact he was lost for words for once, and limited his communication to a big grin. Saphira grinned back.
‘Where are we going, William?’
He slipped his hand into the open saddlebag on his rouncey, and produced the only book he was bringing with him.
‘I have a guide to our travels here. It is a rare copy of a report to the pope written in 1247 by Giovanni of Plano Carpini. Two years earlier, he was commissioned to travel to far distant lands to learn about a race which was troubling the West. It’s called Historia Mongalorum quos nos Tartaros appellamus – the ‘History of the Mongols that we call Tartars’. I encountered some Mongol envoys many years ago, and I have long wished to see their homeland.’
Saphira stared at William, an amused smile on her lips.
‘Then if I am to travel to the ends of the earth with you, the least you can do is clear up a few puzzles to do with Isaac Doukas.’
‘What can they be? Is it not obvious why he did what he did?’
‘Perhaps. But I wondered what made you settle on him and not Fulbert or Plumpton.’
‘I did think it might have been Plumpton for a while. You see, when de Bosco told me that Bukwode, Anwell and Ludlow were scholars he had identified to Plumpton as likely to make the most nuisance of themselves, if the king invaded Wales, I wondered if the proctor had taken it upon himself to be rid of them. I knew de Bosco was fearful of this too, and felt a deep guilt that he had been responsible for their deaths. But then I reconsidered Plumpton’s nature, and saw him not as a murderer, but as a devious man keen to further his own good.’
‘Besides, Bukwode was Geoffrey Westhalf’s victim.’
Falconer nodded eagerly.
‘Exactly. It was his death, accidental in itself, that gave Doukas the idea of killing two birds with one stone. Murder a few Welshmen for his master, Burnell, and throw everyone off the scent when he killed me. Plumpton could not have known of my ancestry, as I had only found it out for myself recently. So he hadn’t given my name to Burnell. It had already been mentioned before Burnell and Doukas arrived in Oxford. The rest of my deduction is easily explained. Who knew of the prophecies, besides Aldwyn and Doukas. The book was there at Doukas’s elbow, and he tied each murder to a prophecy. Then finally, the appearance of the Devil to Will Plome, and the face of God to Westhalf, needs no mystical explanation, when you know it was easy for Doukas to borrow a couple of masks from the troubadours’ cart.’
Saphira’s brow was still creased in concern.
‘But if Doukas was acting for Burnell, and Burnell for the king, what is to stop them trying to kill you again?’
‘I don’t think Edward does want me dead. Burnell may have imagined he did, and acted somewhat beyond his remit.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Falconer waved the book he still held in the air.
‘Because it was Edward gave me this a long time ago. He knew of my lust for travel and learning, and my boredom with teaching. It may not have been a conscious ploy, but he probabl
y felt that such a tale of strange people and places would stir my soul. And it has had its desired effect. Soon we will be leaving England’s shores, and making for distant lands far from Edward and Burnell’s clutches. Are you ready?’
Saphira scented the air, as a freshening breeze blew in through Eastgate and into the stuffy streets of the town.
‘As ever I shall be.’
They both dug their heels into the flanks of their horses, and Tom Inge the gatekeeper waved a goodbye as William Falconer and Saphira Le Veske left the confines of Oxford, and entered the open fields beyond.