Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  ‘What do you want?’

  She had obviously been in the act of removing something tasty or valuable from the spice store, for she abruptly slammed the door closed behind her. Dusting her fingers off on her apron, she strode over to Thomas.

  ‘This is a house of mourning. No one will see you today.’

  Thomas found his voice, trying to pitch it harshly like Falconer did when confronting a guilty-looking individual.

  ‘I know that, and it is you I am seeking, Margery.’

  She blushed deeply and Thomas relished the fact he had managed to wrong-foot her. He pressed his advantage.

  ‘I want to hear what really happened here when your mistress died. And I want the truth, girl.’

  In reality, the servant was probably ten years his senior, but there was no harm in placing himself on the high moral ground. Margery wrung her spice-stained hands and looked at the floor, examining the cracks in the stone flags.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir. I told you everything I know.’

  Thomas realized she thought he had been in the Black Congregation, before which she had testified. He decided not to disabuse her of that misconception, though he could only rely on what Bullock told him about Margery’s evidence.

  ‘Yes. That you showed Master Falconer into your mistress’s presence some days before she died.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘And that was after she had taken ill.’

  Margery screwed up her hairy face, making it look even more monkey-like. She had to think about that one.

  ‘Yessir, she was already ill. And he taxed her with all sorts of questions.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. The mistress told him she had been to Godstow Nunnery recently and had spoken to Mother Gwladys about a private matter.’

  This was probably nothing but knowing Falconer’s propensity for seemingly irrelevant details, Thomas felt he had to find out more.

  ‘A private matter? What was it? Did Mistress Segrim say?’

  Margery shook her head.

  ‘No, sir, I was sent for a potion for the mistress, but I fetched Master Eddington first. He went to her solar and he made Master Falconer leave.’

  ‘No matter. Now I want you to tell me clearly about the day Mistress Segrim died. You say Master Falconer went to her with a preparation.’

  ‘He did, sir. I saw it in his hand. A small earthenware pot – so big.’ She made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of both hands. ‘He was here at the house just as I came back from attending to the mistress. I took her something to eat – to tempt her appetite – and she was alive then. He took her the poison. She drank it and she died.’

  Thomas frowned, thinking this was bad for Falconer, even if the contents of the pot were accidentally poisonous. He had to have this clear in his own head.

  ‘So, did she fall immediately to the ground, or some time later?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that. I wasn’t there, was I?’

  ‘You weren’t… So, you didn’t actually see her drink from the pot?’

  Margery waved her hand dismissively. Why were these Oxford masters so slow on the uptake?

  ‘Of course I didn’t see her actually drink it. But she must have done. She died, didn’t she?’

  Sir Humphrey spent long hours staring out of the solar window, fearing the arrival of the night. He imagined that, should the Templar come for him, he would arrive under cover of darkness. He was that sort of man – capable of bold and extreme violence, but always in the dark. He recalled the black ship that had sailed up the Thames past Shadwell and Wapping. In his mind’s eye, he now saw it sailing under a shroud of darkness, casting its own gloomy shadows. The evening was now drawing on and the shadows on the forecourt of his house were lengthening. He shivered with cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a darkly clad figure and gasped. It was him! Then the figure resolved itself by stepping into a shaft of late sunlight. It was a young man in a clerk’s robe – a student or a master at the university. In fact, when the figure looked up at the window where Sir Humphrey stood, he recognized him as the young master who had accompanied Peter Bullock and the red-haired woman the other day. He had seen them arrive from this very window and had expected them to speak to him. He had sat for a long time in his room awaiting them. All he had heard was a muffled altercation on the gallery beyond his door. Alexander blustering again. And then the visitors had gone. It was said by the servants afterwards that the young man had looked at Ann and told immediately what had caused her death. The servant who related this to him had superstitiously made a sign against the evil eye. But Sir Humphrey did not care whether he used necromancy or plain common sense. If he could see the hand of the Templar in the murder, then he was a man to talk to. He waved his hand out of the window, calling down to the man to wait. Then he hurried out of his solar and across the gallery to the front door.

  Thomas Symon felt frustrated by his interview with Margery. He had learned that she hadn’t witnessed Ann Segrim taking the potion brought by Falconer. She had convinced herself her mistress had swallowed it, merely because Ann had taken something that killed her. But equally, he had no proof that Ann hadn’t swallowed it. He needed to find out from William what had actually happened, even though his evidence would be useless before the Black Congregation. It would be the word of an accused murderer against that of an apparently ingenuous serving maid. But he would believe Falconer and it would eliminate another possible suspect – whoever had prepared the potion.

  He was walking around the front of Botley Manor, deep in thought, when he cast a glance up at one of the narrow windows to the left of the main door. He saw a pale face hovering in the darkness of the room. Was it Sir Humphrey? Thomas stood and stared, wondering if he dare try to speak to the man. Suddenly, the matter was resolved for him – the figure leaned out of the window, holding on to the central pillar, raised an arm and beckoned to him. He walked towards the steps up to the front door.

  Peter Bullock decided he could not wait any longer on Thomas Symon. The youth had left earlier in the day, saying he would search Falconer’s room. It was now early evening and Symon had not returned. He pushed himself up from his comfortable chair by the fire that burned in his castle sanctuary and, grumbling at the inconvenience, set off for Aristotle’s Hall. The town streets were unusually quiet, as though the murder trial had preoccupied everyone, and kept them from their normal night-time revelries. Any students he passed were very subdued and not a single drunk was in sight. He exchanged a few words with one of his watchmen, Samuel Burewald, who confirmed that the town was dead.

  ‘And a good thing too, constable. That’s the way I like it – nice and peaceful.’

  Bullock simply nodded in agreement and made his way down St John’s Street to Aristotle’s Hall. If the town was dead, then the hall was truly a rotting corpse. When he entered through the door, there was no sign of life. Even the hearth was devoid of heat, now merely a pile of ashes blown across the floor by the gust of wind that blew in after Bullock. He stood, hearing a distant sigh from the cubicles that made up the students’ sleeping quarters at the far end of the hall. He guessed it was Peter Mithian churning over and over in his mind the devastating statement he made about his master before the chancellor. The boy had been outwitted by a man who could twist any simple statement into a confession of guilt. That was the trouble with these scholars, as far as Bullock was concerned. Even his old friend William could misconstrue any simple fact and turn it into something it wasn’t. Well, he was not going to fall into that trap. Facts were facts, and he would lay them out simply before the chancellor and prove Falconer’s innocence. Avoiding disturbing the student, he mounted the rickety wooden stairs to Falconer’s private room and pushed open the door.

  For a moment, he thought he saw a ghost – a white figure high up in the corner of the room. Then the shape hopped to the windowsill. With a whispery beat of its wings, Balthazar the barn owl flew
into the darkness. The bird had such a cold stare, and so impassive a manner, that Bullock often imagined him as William’s familiar. He thrust the thought from his mind, however. It was not wise to even think about Falconer in terms of witchcraft in the present circumstances. He fixed his mind on his recent resolve to stick to facts and began to examine Falconer’s room.

  His search proved to be just as frustrating as waiting for Thomas Symon had been. He knew the room very well, having sat in it with Falconer a hundred times before. He simply could not see anything that would offer him a clue as to Falconer’s guilt or innocence. The cot still stood in one corner, its coverings neatly folded. Falconer kept tidy quarters for the same reason Bullock did. Both had been soldiers, and you had to keep your possessions orderly when on campaign, or you would lose them if there was an urgent call to arms or a quick retreat. A pile of books and scrolls were stacked to one side of the chimney piece. It was no use Bullock examining them. He knew he would not be able to understand a word. If he was to find anything, it would not be amongst the books. A single chair stood close by the hearth, which was swept of ashes – probably by Peter Mithian on the very morning he had ended up betraying his master. A stool, the only other seat, was set close by the long table that dominated the room.

  Bullock cast a despairing glance over the contents of the table. They always bewildered him in their variety and apparent uselessness. Stones and bones, and more scrolls. He did spot some pots set on top of an opened scroll and wondered if they were the ones Mithian had referred to. The so-called poisonous preparations. He cautiously sniffed at one and recoiled in horror. The stench was terrible. If you didn’t die by swallowing it, you could expire inhaling it. He spotted a piece of parchment lying next to the pots, in a bold hand he knew wasn’t Falconer’s. He picked it up and slowly read the words out loud.

  ‘Take care! This preparation is dangerous. I should know, because I now have learned how to poison someone!’

  The short message was signed with a flourish of a letter. It looked to Bullock like a capital S.

  FOURTEEN

  It was the second day of Falconer’s trial and, as agreed, Bullock met with Saphira Le Veske and Thomas Symon at the castle. When Saphira entered the spartan room that Bullock used as his office, however, he was alone. And she noticed the constable was strangely reticent. He seemed unable to look her in the eye, but she chose to ignore this. Falconer’s dire situation was more important than puzzling out Bullock’s mood. So, without waiting for Thomas Symon, who was late, Saphira began to tell the constable about Covele, the talisman seller, and his connection with Ann Segrim. How he must have been at Botley because an angel text had been in Ann’s solar. How he probably had a grudge against Falconer. And how he had purchased arsenic from Robert Bodin. But she admitted that was where the facts began to fail her.

  ‘I can only connect Ann Segrim’s death to him, if he somehow assumed she was William’s…’ She coughed in embarrassment, but finally spat the awkward word out. ‘If she was his lover. And Covele thought killing her would hurt him. That is all I have so far.’

  Bullock had been deep in thought while she spoke. Now he stood up and pushed a clean sheet of parchment over the table to her.

  ‘Can you write all this down. My hand is poor and you would scribe more quickly than me.’

  Saphira was a little surprised but agreed to write down what she had discovered. As she wrote, Bullock leaned over her shoulder, apparently engrossed in the formation of each letter. Suddenly, Thomas burst into the room, a broad grin on his face. He slapped a startled Bullock on the back.

  ‘I have it. Proof that Falconer is innocent.’

  Bullock stared at the young man in astonishment. Saphira laid down her quill and asked the obvious question.

  ‘You do? What is this proof?’

  ‘Yes. Well, if not actual proof, a definite reason for Ann Segrim being murdered.’

  Bullock snorted. He would have bet the boy hadn’t any proof. Still, he would hear him out.

  ‘Go on.’

  Thomas’s eyes were wide with excitement.

  ‘You will not believe what I am about to tell you.’

  ‘Let us be the judge of that. Spit it out.’

  Bullock was sceptical, but the story that emerged was indeed astonishing.

  At Botley yesterday, Sir Humphrey had hustled Thomas into the manor house and slammed the door behind him. He threw the bolt on the door, checking it was in place twice, before he ushered Thomas up to his solar. At no point en route would he speak. In fact, he held a finger to his lips when Thomas tried to ask a question. Only when they were both in the private solar did Sir Humphrey say anything. And even then he paced around in a most agitated way.

  ‘I am telling you this because you need to know. But I must warn you that your life will be in danger, if I do speak. Do you want me to go on?’

  Thomas was all agog at this overture, and even the threat of his imminent demise did not prevent him from urging Segrim to continue.

  ‘Please go on. If it affects the matter of Master Falconer’s trial and your wife’s unfortunate death, then I must hear you out.’

  Sir Humphrey clasped his hands as if in prayer and put them to his lips. After a brief moment of silence, he began the most extraordinary tale. It was all to do with a Templar and a plot to murder King Henry’s family.

  Bullock’s eyes widened and he held up his hand to stop Thomas Symon in full flow.

  ‘Wait just a moment. Are you seriously suggesting that Ann Segrim’s death has to do with a treasonable act by this… Templar?’

  Thomas nodded eagerly.

  ‘Just hear me out and you will be convinced. It apparently all began when Segrim fell in with a Templar on the crossing to France last year.’

  Thomas recounted Segrim’s tale as he had been told it. How the Templar, a tall, well-built man with black hair and a full beard, had borne the choppy crossing without turning a hair. His green eyes were for ever on the horizon and the approaching coastline. Segrim had engaged him in conversation, which had been mostly one-sided, as the man hardly spoke. He didn’t at that stage give away even his name. After listening to Segrim’s prattle, he had reluctantly agreed to share the costs of his journey with him. And all had been well until they reached Viterbo. When Sir Humphrey had heard that Henry, son of Richard King of Germany, and nephew to the King of England, was also in Viterbo, he was determined to see the man. He always had an eye for possible royal contacts and advancement. He suggested to the Templar that they attend the service at the Church of San Silvestro on the morrow of St Gregory, as Henry would be there. The Templar was unimpressed and said he did not wish to be there, suggesting Sir Humphrey would do well to stay away too. Segrim chose otherwise and lived to wish he hadn’t.

  On the day, Sir Humphrey found himself at the back of a packed church, as it turned out that many noblemen were also seeking to speak to Henry, who was on his way home from Africa. All Segrim got to see was the back of a distant figure, kneeling before the altar. Then all hell broke loose. A group of armed men stormed up the aisle, swords in hand. They hacked Henry, son of Richard, to pieces. Three of the men were later identified as Simon and Guy de Montfort and Count Rosso, father-in-law to Guy. It was assumed then that the deed was revenge for the death of the de Monforts’ relative, Simon de Montfort, at the battle of Evesham, seven years before. But as the murderers left the church, running out the way they had come, one of them turned to briefly stare at Sir Humphrey. A pair of cold, green eyes shone from behind the full-face helm. Segrim was convinced it was the Templar. But when he next saw the man, nothing was said. Sir Humphrey had told Thomas Symon he was too scared.

  ‘He told me they journeyed on together, but that he didn’t join the Templar when the man left for Outremer from Cyprus. Segrim expected almost daily to hear of the death of Prince Edward, who was in Acre at the time. But it never happened. The next time he saw the Templar was back in Famagusta in late August. The news had just arrived of
the death of Edward’s eldest son, John, back in England. The Templar was one of a group of men-at-arms who seemed to be toasting the news, rather than lamenting it. That was when Segrim decided abruptly to return to England without ever having reached the Holy Lands.’

  Bullock’s face was clouded, as he tried to comprehend what Thomas was telling them.

  ‘Are you telling us that Segrim has supposed a grand conspiracy, based on the possible involvement of this Templar in a revenge killing.’

  ‘And his celebration of another death in the king’s family.’

  Bullock was transfixed, not sure what to believe. Saphira, however, pointed out the problem with Thomas’s thesis.

  ‘Even so. There is no proof here of any connection to Ann Segrim’s murder. Merely a fantasy existing only in Sir Humphrey’s mind.’

  ‘Would it convince you, if I told you that, on the return journey, the Templar pursued Sir Humphrey by sea and land for months on end, until Segrim thought he had eluded him at Honfleur. Then, after crossing the Channel, Sir Humphrey next saw the Templar in Berkhamsted the very day Richard, King of Germany, died. And the Templar saw him. That is why he went into hiding in Oxford town before daring to return home. And why I think Ann was murdered by the Templar because he was afraid she had been told of the conspiracy by her husband.’

  Bullock nodded as if finally convinced, so it was left to Saphira to speak again.