[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death

by Ian Morson

  Falconer raised his goblet, and laughed.

  ‘A sore head, no doubt. What do you mean, pussyfoot?’ Very deliberately, Saphira rose and pulled at the ties at the back of her dress. Falconer watched in fascination as her shoulders came free. They were a honey colour like the skin of her face. Then the dress slid to the ground, and he could see her whole body was the same glorious hue. He almost regretted the necessity to then reveal his own white battle-scarred body to her. Almost.

  Now it was dawn, and there seemed no reason for regret over what had taken place the night before. Falconer’s final assault on the beautiful bastion that was Saphira was affected by the sweet surrender of the defending forces, and the opening of the postern gate. In fact, he suspected that he had been totally outmanoeuvred by a more wily force, who had drawn him into a well-planned trap. She smiled at him again: ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Hmm. I am thinking that as I fell asleep, I have not proved exactly sparkling company, have I? What will you think of Oxford now? It will seem to you like a place of rabid townspeople, and soporific clerics.’

  ‘You have just described Canterbury, and La Réole in Bordeaux come to think of it. Though the last is perhaps more like soporific townsfolk and rabid clerics.’

  He eased himself reluctantly up, holding his now dry robe around him modestly.

  ‘I had better go before your reputation is completely compromised by my presence.’

  She helped him up and, stepping close, placed her hand on his arm. He sensed that she was unwilling to see him go. But whether that was because of last night or concern for her own safety, he could not tell.

  ‘At least wait until the rain has stopped, or you will be soaked again. And I don’t imagine your lodgings in...’

  ‘Aristotle’s Hall.’

  ‘How appropriate for a logician. Aristotle’s Hall won’t be as warm as in my kitchen.’

  Those large hazel-green eyes stared unblinkingly at him, warmth etched into the tiny crowsfeet of wrinkles at each extremity. But, tempting though the offer was, Falconer hesitated. He was uncertain of his reasons, but his supposed celibacy, and some sudden thought of Ann Segrim, were included amongst them. Besides, he felt it would be unfair on Saphira Le Veske and her reputation for him to stay any longer. He did have one question that was buzzing around his skull like a fly trapped in a room. Foolishly, as he dressed, he blurted it out.

  ‘Do you know if there is any truth behind all these horrific tales of child-murder?’

  Even though he could see Saphira’s sparkling emerald eyes deadening to a dull greenish-brown, he plunged stupidly on.

  ‘I mean I know no sane person could give them credence, but what if there were some crazy fanatic... Jehozadok as much as told me that such a one existed.’

  Saphira held up her hands to still his flapping tongue, and then folded her arms protectively round her waist. She turned her back on him. It was a gesture that excluded him as clearly as her previous stance had welcomed him. He sighed, and moved towards the hallway.

  ‘If my young lodgers have kept the fire stoked up in our common hall, I shall settle for some warmth there.’ She tilted her head to acknowledge his resolve, and led him to the front door. Cautiously, she drew back the bolts she had earlier thrown in such haste, and opened the door to peer out.

  The dark hid no lurking monsters, or rioting men, so Falconer slipped through the gap into the cold of the morning. He crossed the street without a backward glance. Once in the shadows at the comer of Blue Boar Lane, he could not resist looking back at Abraham’s house. But the door was firmly closed, and Saphira Le Veske was nowhere in sight. He hitched his robe around his shoulders, and bent into the drizzle that still fell from the leaden sky.

  The lane was really nothing more than a narrow gap that wound circuitously through a haphazard cluster of houses.

  But it afforded a quick way through the top end of Jewry, emerging down the side of the church of St Edward the Martyr.

  Falconer knew the way blindfold, which was just as well, because at this time it was pitch dark along its length. Confident of his step, he strode out, only to almost fall headlong over a damp bundle. Cursing whoever had left it there, he went to step over, before realizing it was a man. Though a hood covered the head, a pale hand lay stretched out on the far side.

  Falconer crouched down, and cautiously lifted the hood, ready to be cursed by a drunk angry to have his sleep disturbed.

  The man’s head was covered in blood, and his clouded eyes gazed up at the sky. Falconer recognized him as Wilfrid Southo, the foreman from the building site. And he was undoubtedly very dead.

  ‘I am beginning to think my careless wish for a murder to solve has been taken all too seriously by a vengeful God, Peter.’

  The constable, Peter Bullock, grunted, and eased himself off the ground by the body. He wore his watchman’s woollen cloak, which being well greased with lamb’s fat, shed the drizzle in rivulets. Due to its stiffness, he looked rather ridiculous, like a shepherd’s byre on legs. But he was dry, which was more than Falconer was. The regent master was once again soaked, having spent a long time in the rain over this latest murder.

  On first discovering the body, he had called on a reluctant elderly resident of Blue Boar Lane to guard it while he fetched the constable.

  ‘What about the hue and cry?’ groaned the old man. ‘You are first finder, and must instigate it, or you will be fined. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  Falconer, well aware of the old law that called upon the finder of a body to rouse everyone in the area to seek out the murderer, prevaricated however. He was of the conviction that having several disgruntled and tired people running aimlessly in circles complaining about getting wet would serve no purpose.

  ‘I am fetching the constable. That will fulfil my duty. Now just make sure no one else comes along and falls over the body. Or disturbs it.’

  As he hurried off towards Oxford Castle and the quarters of the constable, he heard the old man calling after him.

  ‘It’s a waste of time, anyway. If it wasn’t the Jews who killed him, it was someone in the mob. Last night was not a night to be out and about.’

  Falconer could not help but agree with him in part. It had been a bad night to be abroad. But there was a strange coincidence in the dead man being one of those who had found the long-dead body on the building site not much earlier. It piqued his curiosity, and he mentioned it to Bullock as he dragged him out of his warm bed. The constable had not paid much attention, still apparently unmindful of Falconer’s keenness to solve the old murder.

  Now, he was just as unimpressed by this fresh body. The narrow lane was making it a problem to examine it closely, and Bullock seemed unwilling to even look.

  ‘It’s that foreman from the building site. He probably had too much to drink, and not knowing he was in Jewry, found himself at the hands of a mob baying for Jews’ blood. It will be impossible to find out who did this. Everyone who was involved will keep their mouths shut. No one’s going to shop their neighbour, for fear of reprisals.’

  ‘Let me take a closer look, then, Peter.’

  ‘No!’ The stare in Bullock’s eyes was fierce, and his grip on Falconer’s arm tight as a band of steel. ‘I will sort this out, and get the man’s employer to deal with the burial. Southo is one of his crew.’

  ‘And what will you tell Thorpe about who committed the murder? That it was someone in the town, but it was Southo’s fault for being here in the first place?’

  Bullock sighed, his hand dropping from Falconer’s arm.

  ‘No, William, you are right. I will look into it, I promise. I will make myself even more unpopular by questioning those who were seen at the head of the mob. I will beat a few heads together and ask questions that will get no reply. Maybe someone will flee, and we can outlaw him, and that will be that.’ Falconer grimaced at his friend’s newly found careless attitude to murder, but decided to say no more. Until he could discover what was at the bot
tom of it. For he was certain there was something behind Bullock’s reluctance to pursue either murder. Meanwhile, he would return to Bonham and see what he had found out about the skeleton. Together with the identity offered him by Jehozadok, they might be able to unravel the puzzle some more.

  The constable of Oxford, Peter Bullock, was not used to dissembling with William Falconer, and felt he was doing it badly. Trudging back to his quarters in Oxford Castle, he chewed over the facts of the old murder, and how it might have caused the death of Wilfrid Southo. The truth was that he knew who the man in the wall was. Or had been, twenty years ago. Not that he had known at the time, nor until very recently. The information had been vouchsafed him in the strictest confidence, and his old vows prevented him from telling anyone. He rolled his shoulders under the heavy woollen cloak, as if chafing against those vows that held him in check.

  It was a long time since he had followed them strictly, but they felt just as binding now as when he had first taken them.

  The man had unexpectedly invoked them when he first approached Bullock that day. And Bullock had felt duty bound to obey, the old rituals filling his head once again. Still he felt sorely the injustice of his situation. He was withholding information from William, his closest friend, and damaging that friendship. It made his steps even heavier than usual.

  As soon as he entered his spartan quarters, he knew someone was there waiting for him. His hand went involuntarily to his old and trusted sword, hanging at his side.

  ‘There is no need for that, Sergeant. It is I.’

  The voice from the shadows was strong and authoritative, and Bullock sighed.

  ‘You took a chance, venturing out so soon after the riot had dispersed. I am already dealing with one killing, I would not like to be explaining your death away just now.’ The man chuckled, and stepped in the centre of the room, his presence dominating the surroundings.

  ‘Ah, the unfortunate mason. Yes, we need to talk about that.’ Bullock grimaced at the thought of another web of lies to be spun. It was only later that he wondered how the man had come to know about the death so swiftly.

  When Falconer reached the little door in Sumnor’s Lane, he felt there was something odd about Bonham’s house. He saw a bundle, carefully folded in white linen on the doorstep. The cloth looked wet and stained, and leaning down to examine it, the sharpness of vinegar assailed his nostrils. The cloth had been soaked in it, and it clung to whatever was within. He stood up and stepped back to examine the windows. All were firmly shuttered, and though the riot last night might have occasioned the cautious Bonham to seal himself up tight, it was now late morning.

  The little grey master was a stickler for his duties concerning lectures, and only illness would have kept him away. Falconer recalled that when he had last seen him, the master had complained of lethargy and the symptoms of a severe cold.

  He assumed that Bonham was after all unwell. But the package at the door was puzzling. He bent down again to examine it, fumbling his eye-lenses from his pouch to get a better look.

  He took the bundle in his hand and turned it over. Then he decided to rouse the man after all. He pounded with his fist on the door until he heard a scraping noise from behind it. It sounded like someone dragging himself along the passage inside the house.

  ‘Master Richard? Are you there?’

  There was a silence at first, though Falconer imagined he could hear breathing. A harsh, rasping breath that spoke of terrible illness.

  ‘Bonham? It’s me, William Falconer. Are you all right?’ When Bonham did speak it was with a weak and tremulous voice.

  ‘Falconer... I am unwell, so I will not open the door, if you don’t mind. The light is so bright, and I must.., rest. Is there anything you wanted?’

  ‘Yes, Richard. I need to speak with you. The skeleton could he have been a Templar priest?’

  The voice was now nothing more than a whisper on the wind, and Falconer had to press his ear against the door to catch what Bonham said.

  ‘Indeed he was, though I had hoped I could have surprised you with that revelation. The remnants of his garb were green, and the red cross on his breast was just still discernible. As was the glove on his buried hand. But you must read my notes. Do you see them? I left them outside the door for you.’ Falconer looked again at the bundle in his hand.

  ‘Yes, I have them here, Richard. But I wish you would open the door, and we could discuss this more sensibly.’ Bonham’s voice suddenly mustered a strength it had previously lacked.

  ‘No! I... er, just need to rest. I am fearful that if I open the door, it will not be safe...’

  The man’s voice had once again tailed off.

  ‘Richard?’

  Falconer heard the slow scratchings of Bonham’s departure along the passage. Wondering why everyone was behaving so oddly all around him, he trudged back to Aristotle’s Hall and his chilly, damp solar. There, after the topsy-turvy night of exhilaration and despair, tiredness overcame him. He threw the half-forgotten bundle he had picked up from Bonham’s doorstep on to the pile of papers on his big oak table. Slumping on the simple bed, he fell asleep almost immediately, the silent, ghostly form of Balthazar, his owl, keeping unblinking watch over him.

  Fourteen

  Deudone had failed to find Covele, and he was scared. The riot the previous night had not only been all about a ritual sacrifice such as he had been involved with, it had also served to remind him of the time some twenty years earlier when the same accusations had been flung about. He had been only a boy then, but the events were emblazoned on his mind nevertheless.

  Particularly because he had much to feel guilty about.

  May: two days after Shavuot, 1250

  It was a bright sunny day, and nine-year-old Deudone would have preferred to be out running through the water meadows beyond Grandpont causeway. But Jed Stokys was scared to go beyond the walls of the town. His father was the town constable, and would come down hard on his son if the boy so much as put a foot out of line. Deudone had seen Jed after Matt Stokys had dealt with one of Jed’s infractions. His arms and legs had been covered in livid bruises. And poor Jed had been cowed into submission by his father. It was a continuing source of surprise to Deudone that Jed even dared play with him, a Jew. But then Jed had precious few other friends, all because of his father’s temper and his job. So it was that today the best Deudone could expect with scrawny, snivelling Jed in tow would be to lurk around the darker corners of Oxford’s back streets. And find some sort of trouble to get into that would entail them not being caught. Deudone did try his luck one more time, though.

  ‘Come on, Jed. Your dad will never know. No one will see us if we sneak through the gate when old John Kepeharm is asleep. We can go fishing for eels in the causeway stream by Trill Mill.’

  Deudone, despite his age, was the senior partner in their gang of two. And reckoned he could be quite persuasive when it came down to it. But Jed, a year older but more timid, shook his head. He was slumped on the cobbled ground behind St Frideswide’s Church, his back against its warm stones.

  ‘We’ve still got to get back in. And if I’m seen, I’m for it.’ He shivered at the thought of another beating. He had thought he was going to die the last time, and couldn’t bear to suffer another punishment like that.

  ‘Very well. Let’s go round to where they’re building those new houses. We can hide in the piles of timber, and when the men have finished, we can climb the scaffolding and look down in the back yards behind.’

  Deudone resented not going eeling, but he could see the Christian boy was too scared to go on the proposed fishing expedition. So, aware he had lost the argument, he decided he would win the day somehow. Pretending to lean nonchalantly against the venerable stones of St Frideswide’s, he mentally set himself for a race.

  ‘So, Little Jewry Lane it is, then. Last one there’s a sissy.’ And he sped off across the cobbles of the courtyard before Jed had even picked himself off the ground. Beating the older bo
y by several yards, Deudone swung under the stack of timbers on the edge of the building site, where he was out of sight of the masons working on the new row of houses. Jed scrambled after him, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Both of them laughed, punched each other’s arm, and then sank back in silence on to an empty hessian sack.

  That was how Deudone happened to hear the Christian priest in earnest conversation with the two Jews, without him or Jed being seen. The first they knew someone was close by was from the sound of boots passing in the lane, and the buzz of a conversation that was at first inaudible. But it was soon clear the talk was more an argument than the pleasantries of people passing the time of day. There were three distinct voices, and Deudone could tell from their accents that two were Jews like him. He might not still have known what they were talking about, if the men hadn’t stopped close to where the boys were hiding. One of the Jews - Deudone thought from his Bristolian accent it was Aaron, Cresselin’s son - suddenly raised his voice in astonishment.

  ‘Ten thousand marks! You must be joking. We don’t have that sort of money.’

  The third man chuckled, and then spoke with a sneer in his voice.

  ‘You are Jews, aren’t you? Isn’t it your business to make money? A privilege you owe to the King, I remind you. Are you trying to tell me you won’t now assist the King in his time of need?’

  The other Jew chipped in. Deudone guessed it was probably Hayim, who was always at Aaron’s side when it came down to matters of business.

  ‘The ransom money was paid to free the French king, not Henry, our king.’

  ‘And it is your king who has dictated that you should pay your share of the ransom to rescue his fellow crusader. To deny him what you owe is nothing short of treasonous. But then what should I expect from you Jews?’

  At that jibe, Deudone poked his head out of the stack of timbers, ready to attack the man. He was held back by a frightened Jed, who pulled him down. But not before he saw who had been talking. The two Jews were indeed Hayim and Aaron, and they were being confronted by a tall, bearded man dressed in dark green robes with a soft cap on his head.