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

by Ian Morson

  ‘You think the Jews stole their own money back after giving it to this ...’

  ‘Michael le Saux,’ Bullock provided the name of the Templar priest once again. Falconer for once seemed incapable of retaining it in his memory. ‘And I’m not saying the Jews did it as a group, but that perhaps one of them did. One who knew the Templar had a large sum in his possession. He carried the first instalment of an even larger sum, which was provided by Lumbard selling those houses even though work had only just begun on them.’

  To Bullock’s surprise, Falconer for once did not berate him for casting doubt on the honesty of the Jews. In fact he looked downcast, as though he himself harboured similar doubts. He did have one retort.

  ‘Houses bought by Sir Gilbert de Bois. You wonder where he got the money from to buy such a parcel of land in the town.’

  ‘It matters not where he got the money, it is finding where the money went to that will lead us to the killer.’ Falconer leaned back in his chair, tipping it precariously on the two back legs, and scratched at his tousled hair in frustration. In his eagerness to press home the advantage, the constable let out another secret from his past.

  ‘I met the priest, you know.’

  ‘Le Saux? Where? Here in Oxford?’

  ‘No, it was some while before I reached Oxford. It was on my journey back from the Holy Land. When Louis was taken, what was left of the army fled by ship to Cyprus, landing at Famagusta. It was chaos, with leaderless men, whose lords had been either killed or taken, fighting to get berths on ships leaving for home. Even the Order’s command structure was fractured. The Grand Master was dead, and Reginald was not yet appointed. The harbour was a mass of shifting humanity, each person like a pebble rolling on the shore with no purpose, and I was one of the stones. Then someone touched my arm, and gave my rank.’

  The day before Epiphany, January 1250

  ‘Sergeant. Your services are required.’

  I turned round, and there he stood. Though I didn’t know his name at the time. All I saw was a tall, slim Templar priest in immaculate green robes and wearing leather gloves. I couldn’t’ work out how he could be so neat and tidy, when all around him were dishevelled and covered in blood. His eyes were brown and calm, his face showing no sign of strain. A long straight nose sliced his features in two, stopping at his trim moustache and beard. I looked down at my own shabby brown mantle, stained with vomit and filth, and felt ashamed.

  I instinctively pulled myself upright.

  ‘Yes, sir. What do you wish me to do?’

  The priest pointed at a stack of boxes and chests at his side.

  ‘It is imperative that these items are made secure aboard the Oriflamme immediately. They are to be shipped back to France and safety. I have been chosen to accompany them, and to begin to make arrangements for collecting any ransom that will be demanded for King Louis’s release. I need a strong man to assist me, and it appears that everyone else here -’ he indicated the morass of shifting bodies on the quay with a disdainful wave of his gloved hand - ‘has lost their head. You, however, look like a man who can be trusted.’ I stiffened my back even further, and felt six feet tall.

  ‘The Order can trust me, sir. Where is the Oriflamme?’ The priest pointed out into the bay, and I saw the galley that had once headed the fleet of Louis’s ships when he came to take the Holy Land back into Christian hands. That enterprise now lay in ruins, but the flagship of the force, named after France’s scarlet banner, still rode flamboyantly offshore.

  The sides were covered in painted escutcheons bearing the royal arms. There were banks of oars amounting to three hundred rowers, each of whom had a painted shield beside him, and a pennon sprouting from it with the coat of arms worked in gold. The sun made the whole galley sparkle.

  ‘How are we to board her?’

  ‘Come. I have reserved a boat. But we must hurry, or the mob will claim it.’

  The priest grabbed a small pine chest with strong metal straps on its edges, and left me to drag as best I could the other two much larger wooden chests making up his baggage.

  We were lucky to commandeer the boat when we did, because I heard that soon after we left the quay many men died in the unseemly scramble to escape.

  Feast of St Giles, September 1271

  ‘It took us months to make the return journey, and I had thought it would end for the priest somewhere in France. But we did not rest there, and le Saux, myself and those chests were finally making our way across the English Channel. He still kept hold of that small iron-bound chest, and would let no one else touch it. I could not imagine it had any money in it. Or if it did it was not much money. But he guarded it like it was more precious than gold.’

  Falconer’s curiosity was aroused.

  ‘How big was it, this box?’

  Bullock made a vague shape with his hands.

  ‘Oh, so big. It could have not held anything bigger than a full-head helm for a knight-warrior. Whatever it was, the priest left it behind at the Temple Cowley commandery, where he got his instructions to collect the ransom money that had in the meantime been agreed for the release of Louis and the other nobles. It was there he released me from my vow to guard him and his possessions. In fact it was where I abandoned all my vows to the Order. I was sick of fighting, and acting as nursemaid to wild young men who had no concept of the dangers of battle. Oxford was my home town, and close by. I longed to see if any of my old friends were still alive, and as luck would have it, the position of constable had just been vacated.’

  ‘By Matt Stokys.’

  ‘Yes, by that child-killer Stokys. And the sheriff was looking for someone who was a little steadier, and of an unblemished record.’

  ‘But despite that he chose you anyway.’

  Bullock roared, and feigned a swinging blow at Falconer’s head. Falconer ducked, falling back on his narrow bed. Their old friendship was on its way to healing, and Bullock felt relieved to have told Falconer at least most of the truth as he knew it. The presence of the Templar knight in the town would still have to remain locked in his heart.

  ‘Where do you think we should start in hunting down le Saux’s killer?’

  Bullock expected Falconer to suggest they begin in Jewry, but he had another proposal.

  ‘If you can rustle up a pair of palfreys, I would like to visit Sir Gilbert de Bois, and ask him about his purchase of the half-built houses in Little Jewry Lane.’

  The constable had just such horses at his disposal, and was much cheered by the idea of some action and a refreshing ride in the countryside.

  ‘It is late now. I will arrange matters for first thing in the morning.’

  2 September, 1271

  Having waited all evening in hope that William Falconer might call on her as part of his hunt for Deudone, Saphira finally accepted that was not to be. She retired to her bed alone, sleeping only fitfully as she tossed around in her mind what Falconer had intimated concerning rituals and the Jews of Oxford. She woke early the next day quite unrefreshed.

  Resolute, she quickly dressed for the outdoors, flung a cloak over her best gown to protect it from the threat of rain and plunged out into the muddy streets. She would seek out the boy herself, and show Master Falconer the error of his judgement concerning ritual slaughter. Saphira was entirely unused to being the timid wife, staying at home to manage the household. Her husband had resigned himself to this, and had allowed her to take an equal share in running the business of lending money at interest to those who required it. In fact, she had ended up undertaking most of the work, being more adept at it than her scholarly husband, who had retreated into esoteric studies of their religion. His obsession had led him down dangerous avenues and into the realm of the Kabbalah.

  This branch of Judaism was severely disapproved of by the traditional hierarchy in their home town of La Réole in Bordeaux. But her husband ignored the warnings of their rabbi, and to make their only son, Menahem, down the same road. With disastrous effects. Fortunately, her
son had been restored to her, but in the meantime her husband had died of an apoplexy. Menahem now immersed himself in the affairs of moneylending, and the bond of mother and son was closer than it had ever been.

  But there was something missing, and Saphira had not been aware of it, until she had met, purely by accident, the taciturn but intriguing regent master of Oxford University, William Falconer. He had stirred her like no man she had met before, and she had regretted allowing him to ride off after their encounter at Bermondsey Abbey. Now she had consummated her desires, but unfortunately he seemed oblivious of her attraction. So she proposed to make herself unavoidable by beating him at his own game.

  Hannah had intimated that Falconer was trying to get to the bottom of a twenty-year-old puzzle which involved the Jewish community in some way, and Deudone in particular.

  As she had had to cross the English Channel in her hunt for her own son, and had succeeded in finding him hidden away in a priory in the middle of nowhere, she reckoned the search for a young man unfamiliar with anywhere but his own town would be simple by comparison. The first step would be to visit the house of Samson the apothecary, and to speak once more to Hannah. She should have some guesses as to where the man she intended to marry would be hiding.

  Twenty

  There were two roads that led from Oxford to Tubney Manor, which was situated some miles to the south-west, but Bullock chose the westerly route. Travelling first due south would involve the crossing of the very marshy land outside South Gate. Due to the constant rains, the river was in spate and Grandpont causeway itself was under threat. By leaving Oxford by North Gate, then cutting due west past Oseney Abbey, the two riders would soon be on higher ground, and would make swifter progress via Botley and Cumnor.

  Eventually, they were rewarded by the sight of Tubney Wood standing darkly on the little ridge ahead of them. They had ridden through Bessels Leigh and towards the scattered houses that marked the edge of the Tubney estate before Bullock was able to contain his curiosity no longer. Another mile and they would be at the home of Sir Gilbert de Bois. He turned in the saddle to speak to Falconer, whose long robe was hitched up to reveal his cotton breeches. The garb of a regent master was not conducive to riding, but Falconer looked comfortable enough, a grim smile on his face.

  ‘I am puzzled, William. What do you hope to learn from Sir Gilbert that will lead us to the killer of Michael le Saux?’

  ‘If money is the key to whoever murdered the priest and buried him in the wall, then I wish to know the sequence of events that led to the payment of part of the ransom to le Saux. And who knew he had it.’

  Bullock grunted his acknowledgement of Falconer’s meticulous method. He had once been lectured to on Aristotle and his logic by his friend, and didn’t wish to have his ears assaulted again. Let Falconer deal with discovering lesser truths and the greater truth that they might reveal, Bullock preferred a good chase. They both spurred their little hardy palfreys onward, anxious to avoid the rain that threatened to tumble from the leaden sky. Then Falconer made an odd statement that left Bullock mystified.

  ‘Besides, even if Sir Gilbert is innocent of le Saux’s murder, there is another matter he must answer for.’

  That was all Falconer would say, and so they rode on in more or less companionable silence. A silence that was only broken when they passed close by an imposing old wych elm that stood at a junction.

  ‘That’s the Tubney Tree,’ offered Bullock. ‘The locals gather there for their May-time dances. The fair will not have been long ago too. They have it soon after St Lawrence’s Day.’ Falconer, who remained as unimpressed by pagan rituals as much as by some of the ceremonies of the Church, merely grunted at the history lesson. Especially as Tubney Manor was revealing itself to their view. It was a simple box of a building with slits for windows and a dry moat wrapped protectively around it. The de Bois family had inherited the property by virtue of marrying into an even older family that had been rooted in the locality for centuries. The place looked as though no one had made any changes in all that time. It was grey and dour in appearance, which was not helped by the heavy, clouded sky that hung over it. The manor farm to the east looked equally bedraggled, and there were few labourers working in the fields. Those that were had sacking draped over their shoulders to protect themselves from the weather, and so they looked shabby and stooped from hard toil.

  ‘Not a cheerful place, Tubney, is it, Peter? I cannot imagine these folk dancing their cares away round the tree you pointed out.’

  ‘You are too much of a townie, William. You try being cheerful when the rain is pouring down and you still have to work the fields.’

  Falconer was about to remind his friend of his own soft existence with a job confined to the streets of Oxford and quarters inside the substantial wails of Oxford Castle that came with the post, but he restrained himself. They had both risked their lives in battle, but felt that was infinitely preferable to the daily grind of rural life. These peasants were the bottom of a heap at whose apex sat men like Sir Gilbert de Bois, warm and cosy in his manor house. Or so they thought.

  By the time they reached the manor and dismounted, Falconer’s thoughts had brought him to a self-righteous stew of anger. An anger fed not least by what had happened to the poor servant girl, whose body Bonham had examined secretly.

  It came as a shock therefore that when the steward opened the door they felt no warmth in the great hall. In fact, as they entered, they could see the chamber showed signs of neglect.

  The central hearth was a soggy blackened mess where rain had come in and mixed with the cinders of a very old fire.

  The tapestry that hung at the far end of the hall was threadbare and it was difficult to tell which story it told. Dust obscured the imagery almost completely. The steward addressed them rather brazenly as they stared at the neglect.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We would like to speak with your master, Sir Gilbert, if you please.’

  ‘He is in his solar, and wishes to be left alone.’ He swayed a little as he swept an arm around the room. ‘It is too much of an effort to heat the great hall now the mistress is dead.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of her passing. We had not heard of her death in Oxford.’

  The steward snorted at Bullock’s remark, as though suggesting no one at Tubney cared much what anyone at Oxford thought. Falconer could smell ale on his breath, and wondered why Sir Gilbert would tolerate such an ill-mannered servant. He intervened abruptly, overriding Bullock’s politeness.

  ‘Show us to your master immediately, or it will go ill for you.’

  The surly steward gave the regent master a bleary-eyed stare, but then realized he would not win a contest of wills.

  He lurched away, grumbling under his breath about how it would be on the interlopers’ own heads if his master chose to have them ejected. Unsteadily, he led them up a spiral staircase that was built in the small turret that had been visible to the side of the manor house and pushed open a stiff door, worn at the bottom by years of dragging over the flagstones, and ushered them into Sir Gilbert de Bois’s private upper room.

  They stepped uncertainly into almost complete darkness.

  At first Falconer could see no one, and turned back to the steward. But the drunken servant was not behind them. All he could hear was his erratic stumbling down the stairs. Then an abrupt voice spoke out of the gloom.

  ‘I told Ralph not to let anyone in. Who are you?’ Bullock put a restraining hand on Falconer’s arm, and spoke up as the representative of the law.

  ‘I am the Constable of Oxford, Sir Gilbert. We are here concerning a murder.’

  A feeble ray of morning light pierced the darkness as de Bois pulled a heavy drape from a narrow window slit. Sir Gilbert was slumped in a large ornately carved chair, wrapped in a thick cloak against the chill. His hair was dishevelled, and the crumbs and grease in his beard were evidence of the last meal he had eaten. By his side was a pewter platter and on it the carca
se of a chicken lying picked to the bone. His hand clutched a large goblet, which he unsteadily lifted to his lips and drained. Wiping his lips with filthy fingers, he finally responded.

  ‘Murder? I thought the girl hanged herself.’

  Falconer cut in sharply, startling Bullock. ‘Were you surprised she did that to herself?’

  De Bois shrugged, and let the goblet hang from his grasp, dribbling dregs down his grubby robe.

  ‘To be honest, I was. She was always a wilful girl, too strong-willed to be a house servant. That’s why I sent her out to the fields, where she could sulk to her heart’s content.’

  Bullock butted in on the conversation to bring it back to the point.

  ‘It is not the death of Sarah Blakiston that concerns me at all. The murder I am referring to happened twenty years ago.’

  A strange noise began to emanate from de Bois’s chest. At first Bullock thought he was choking, until it occurred to him it was a deep and throaty laugh.

  ‘Twenty years ago? Why does it matter now?’ He dropped the goblet on the floor with a clatter that echoed down the stair well. Falconer strode across the dark room and confronted de Bois.

  ‘It matters because a man was murdered, and no one was punished for it. In fact, we have only just discovered his body.’ De Bois’s bloodshot eyes slowly took in Falconer.

  ‘Where?’