by Ian Morson
Guchuluk frowned. ‘Could this be true?’
David shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘I have no way of knowing. But if it is true, we should not antagonize their king, bearing in mind our mission. And if it is false, what have we to lose? He may find out who killed the noyan for us.’
That thought didn't please Guchuluk, but he could not disagree with the priest. ‘Let him do what he wishes, but keep an eye on him. It shall be your duty to ensure he does not pry where he is not wanted. Remember who is now in command.’
David understood immediately that Guchuluk was referring to himself, and told Falconer he could examine the body. The scholar came closer, and kneeled at Chimbai's side. He observed the feathers of an arrow protruding from the bloodstained mess of flesh, leather and quilting that was the Tartar commander's chest. Then he noticed that the body lay slightly twisted to one side, as if something prevented it from lying flat on the ground. Lifting the body with one hand, he felt the Noyan's back. He realized that under his tunic the tip and part of the shaft were poking out of Chimbai's back. Lifting the jacket carefully, he saw that the arrow was black with thick heart's blood, and marvelled at the deadly shot. The force of the arrow's flight had truly been great to rip through the tent in which Chimbai had been standing, and still drive on so far through the chest. And the accuracy of such a blind shot was a miracle.
He got to his feet, wiping the sticky blood off his fingers on to the long grass as he did so. Abruptly, Guchuluk pushed him aside, stooped over the body, and fumbled in the pocket of the commander's quilted jacket. After a moment of panic when he obviously couldn't find what he wanted, his fingers closed over what he was seeking. He drew out a small, oblong tablet of gold with a hole drilled in one end. It was a paizah, and whoever held it wielded the authority of the Great Khan himself. He held the object in his palm, and, wiping away the blood that stained the inscription, he read the legend out loud:
‘By the strength of the great god, and of the great grace which he hath accorded to our emperor, may the name of the khan be blessed, and let all such as will not obey him be slain and be destroyed.’
‘You are completely mad.’ Bullock was still astounded at Falconer's audacity. ‘That young Tartar …’
‘Guchuluk.’
‘Gutch-a-look. He looked as if he wanted to rip out your heart and eat it raw on the spot. And as for suggesting that you, of all people, are the legitimate representative of King Henry!’ The constable's face was a bright crimson, such as Falconer had not seen since Bullock had got hopelessly drunk three Christmases ago, terrorizing the student population into observing the most subdued revels for many a year.
‘It got us a look at the body, though, didn't it? And gave me enough authority in their eyes to ask a few questions.’
Bullock began to calm down, and had to grudgingly admit that Falconer was correct. Sitting now in the safety of the constable's chamber in St George's Tower, overlooking the castle walls, he could feel relief that Falconer's masquerade had not ended more seriously. It might have gone badly wrong for both of them. But now he, too, was consumed with curiosity about the interrogations the scholar had conducted through the agency of the Tartar priest. ‘And what did you learn from all your questions?’
‘That Chimbai must have died between sunrise and the middle of the day – say between prime and terce. I can be no more accurate than that because the guards were too afraid to disturb him. But no one could have been in close proximity to the body when he died. The three members of Chimbai's bodyguard could see all sides of the tent and the ground around it. And you could see for yourself that there was nothing but open land all around. It would have been impossible for anyone to sneak up, shoot an arrow in the noyan, and sneak away without being seen.’
‘The bodyguards could have been inattentive. Many sentries are – and I speak from personal experience.’
Falconer couldn't imagine Bullock having shirked his responsibilities as a sentry in his younger days in Henry's army. ‘I doubt they were careless. You could see from their looks that they were petrified about what had happened. I would bet that their attention to duty is based on a stark fear of the consequences of failure. No, the murderer didn't enter the tent while they were on guard.’
‘Then he must have secreted himself in the tent before the commander and his guards arrived.’ Bullock was sure this could be the only logical conclusion. But still Falconer did not fully agree.
‘Possibly. But, if he did, where was he when the men finally entered the tent to find the noyan dead? All insist that, when they burst in, the tent was empty save for the effigies of their gods. And the body.’
‘Could someone have been hiding, only to sneak away during the confusion over the body's discovery?’
Falconer pursed his lips and frowned. ‘It's possible. But that speaks of a risky and desperate strategy, when everything else suggests a well-planned manoeuvre. No, the arrow must have been shot from outside the tent.’
Bullock snorted in derision. ‘A fantastically lucky shot – to pierce the heart without a clear sight of the man. You might as well suggest that his god fired the arrow.’ The constable meant it as a joke, but Falconer went along with him, nodding as if seriously considering the option.
‘Hmm – a lightning bolt from the gods. Unfortunately, it was a very worldly arrow I saw sticking out of his chest. But I would not rule out anything at this stage – even magic.’
Later, he was to regret bringing that word into the investigation – even in jest. But for the moment it was forgotten as another, more fantastic but sickening possibility entered his head. Until now, he had discarded the dark words spoken by Nicholas de Ewelme, Chancellor of the University, as they had left the unsuccessful first meeting with the Tartars. Now they reverberated around his skull again as he strove to find a culprit for the murder. What was it precisely de Ewelme had said – ‘Something will have to be done about these monsters?’
‘Just what I said all along,’ muttered Bullock truculently, making Falconer realize he had repeated the chancellor's threat out loud.
‘No, no. Someone said that to me only a few days ago, and now one of the “monsters” is dead.’ Falconer put up a warning hand to stop Bullock's questioning look. ‘I am not going to tell you who it was – it would be safer for you not to know. If he is the killer, I might be his next victim. And you, too, if he fears discovery as much as I think he would.’
But could the pale, scrawny milksop of a chancellor really have fired the shot that killed Chimbai? Not himself, assuredly. But he was capable of employing others to carry out the deed – a student at the university, perhaps. He would have to ask his own students at Aristotle's Hall if they knew of a marksman capable of shooting such a shaft as struck the Tartar commander down. In the meantime, he must arrange to get a look at the tent in which the deed was done. Guchuluk had expressly forbidden this earlier – indeed the young commander had been markedly reluctant to allow Falconer to interfere at all. It appeared he did not want anyone prying into how the commander had died. But it was vital to Falconer's understanding of the murder to see the interior of the tent where the body had been found. Either the arrow was shot through the opening in the tent, or through the tent wall itself, and a rent in the covering would tell him where the marksman had stood.
While Bullock fussed around in his little larder, returning to its cool shelf the jug of ale that had accompanied the simple midday meal of pottage the two men had shared, Falconer suddenly had an idea. If he could somehow enlist the support of Yeh-Lu, he might be able to gain access to the tent where the murder took place. After he had set in train the search for a miraculous student archer, he would go to the camp and speak to Yeh-Lu. He quickly rose from his seat, and, calling out his thanks for the repast to his friend, left for Aristotle's Hall. Bullock emerged from the larder, once again cursing that he had just remembered to tell Falconer of Guillaume de Beaujeu's lurking presence in Oxford only to have his friend disappear on him.
As Sir Hugh Leyghton rode into Oxford through North Gate, he noticed the abrupt change in fortunes of the shop-keepers lining the street. When he had left a few days earlier, the proximity of the monstrous Tartar emcampment had depressed the area so much that only a few inhabitants ventured to the stalls nearest the gate. Vegetables had lain rotting on the trestles, and scrawny chickens poked their heads disconsolately through the bars of their cages as their sellers pondered the cost of continuing to feed them.
Now the whole market was full of people and buzzing with rumour. The corn merchants had abandoned their stalls and stood in a huddle in the centre of the street, a look of glee written on all their faces. They were so excited as to ignore Sir Hugh's peremptory calls to clear the way, and he was forced to take his charger over the stinking sewage channel in the middle of the street, risking laming the creature on the uneven gully. Beyond the corn merchants, other knots of traders were eagerly swapping news with each other across their trestles. Their voices carried to Sir Hugh, and now the full import of what had roused everyone came to him.
‘The Lord has struck down Gog …’
‘One of the Tartars had been killed …’
‘… by his own graven effigy …’
‘They say the whole encampment will be destroyed.’
This last came from a wall-eyed fishmonger, who did his trade no good by the comment, because all his customers, on hearing the rumour, raced for the city walls and a view of the devastation. Sir Hugh recovered his good humour at the story that was circulating, and spurred his horse in the direction of South Gate, and Bernard de Genova's friary. What he and the Dominican had spoken about only a few days ago had come about, it appeared. And he was anxious to get the full story from Bernard. The only jarring element of what was becoming a very pleasant day came as he crossed the busy thoroughfare of Carfax. There, the conflux of people crossing from wood-merchant to glove-maker, tannery to bread stall, pig market to potter, created a jam of bodies that even a nobleman on horseback had difficulty negotiating. Spotting a gap in the ebb and flow, Sir Hugh twisted the bridle on his charger to turn the horse's head, and thread his way through.
Suddenly a shabbily clad peasant strode out of the crowd and almost under the horse's neck, causing Sir Hugh to pull sharply on his reins. The man stumbled to one side, and, as he did so, grabbed the horse's ornate bridle to steady himself. Sir Hugh raised his gloved hand to strike the impudent fellow, but the man look up, unafraid, straight into Leyghton's eyes. Somehow, the blow never fell, and the curse that was to accompany it died on Leyghton's lips. He wrenched on the bridle, and the man released it, disappearing back into the throng, leaving Sir Hugh Leyghton wondering why Guillaume de Beaujeu, Knight Templar, was scurrying around Oxford dressed like a peasant.
The encounter was so odd that by the time he reached the Dominican friary at Trill Mill, he was beginning to wonder if he had dreamed it. Perhaps the man had just resembled the Templar; indeed it was some twenty-five years or more since he had last seen de Beaujeu. It had been when both had been youths, and the Frenchman had been with a party of Templars bringing the news of Geoffrey Leyghton's death to his parents. Hugh had been ushered into an ante-room by one of the servants, so that Sir Thomas Leyghton and his wife could hear the stark and tragic news of the loss of their favoured, eldest son in private. Whilst in France, Geoffrey's Templar order had summoned him to the defence of Christendom, when news of the Tartar invasion filtered through to the Western world around 1240. A year later, at Leignitz, a massed army of Templars, Hospitallers, Teutonic Knights and mercenaries under the command of Henry of Silesia was routed by the stocky little men on horseback. The Templar force was totally lost, and Geoffrey's comrades came to tell his parents of their loss. Amongst the contingent had been the young, devout Guillaume. Even then, de Beaujeu's eyes had been cold and frightening, and Sir High was sure the self-same eyes had stayed his angry blow just now in the square.
He dismounted in the inner courtyard of the friary, and sent one of its Preacher inmates to announce his presence to Adam Grasse.
‘And tell him I wish permission to talk to Brother Bernard.’
Though he was anxious to speak to Bernard de Genova, he would observe the proper amenities first. As ambassador for the king, he would ensure the senior Dominican's nose was not put out of joint, before glorying in the demise of the Tartar with Brother Bernard. He itched to know how the friar had achieved their objective, and so soon. The Preacher friar who stood before him gave him a strange look, but went on his errand.
An unconscionable time passed, with Sir Hugh pacing impatiently round the cloister, becoming increasingly annoyed at the lack of prompt attention. Gradually he became aware that his presence had not caused the usual stir in the friary. The Dominicans were normally a nosy bunch, who would have found any excuse to pass by and attempt to discover the purpose of his visit. By now he should have been ‘accidentally' encountered by a number of friars. In fact, it suddenly dawned on him that the cloister was unusually silent.
Then the Preacher whom he had sent for Brother Adam reappeared, a grim look on his face. He asked politely if Leyghton would accompany him, then turned away abruptly, apparently expecting no objection. Like an acolyte at his initiation, the perplexed Sir Hugh followed the friar, as his sandalled feet slapped on the cold cloister slabs. The Preacher eventually ushered him through a door into a small, gloomy cell, and retreated. At first Leyghton thought he had been left alone, and could not imagine this cramped and chilly environment was the office of Adam Grasse. But when his eyes, accustomed to the glare of the midday sun, adjusted to the darkness, he realized that Grasse was indeed standing in the darkest corner of the cell. The friar's voice, when he spoke, carried an edge of coldness that chilled Sir Hugh Leyghton even more than the atmosphere of the cell had done.
‘This is Brother Bernard's cell. But I'm afraid he is not here at the present.’
Sir Hugh did not understand the import of the friar's statement. ‘Then, if I may, I will await his return. I need to speak to him concerning an urgent matter about the Tartar embassy.’
‘Then you may have a long wait.’ In response to Leyghton's puzzled look, Grasse waddled over to the simple bed in the corner of the cell and dramatically threw the cover back.
Sir Hugh sucked in his breath at the sight of the bloodstain. ‘Where is Bernard?’
Grasse shrugged. ‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’
The Tartar camp appeared deserted as Falconer approached it across the open meadow, where the colourful summer flowers belied the sombre mood that hung over the little group of tents. He wondered if the occupants of the black tents had stolen away in the night, as silently as they had come. But when he got as far as the two scorched marks on the earth where the burning torches had blazed on that first night, the flap of the main tent opened, and Yeh-Lu emerged. His eyes scanned Falconer, and he nodded imperceptibly, but then turned back inside the tent.
It was the priest, David, who emerged next, and scurried over to where Falconer stood. With his shaky Latin and a smattering of English, he enquired of Falconer what he wanted. It took Falconer several minutes before he made the priest understand he wanted to examine the tent in which the body had been found. At one point, when David seemed wilfully to misunderstand him, he almost called for Yeh-Lu. But then he thought that the Oriental might not wish it known that he spoke the language of the English, nor perhaps that he ventured out on his own into Oxford and communicated with a Franciscan friar. Finally the Nestorian nodded his comprehension, and disappeared into the tent. Again there was silence, and Falconer's eyes strayed to the object of his request. The small tent, like the others, had an opening that faced south, towards the city walls. The flap at the entrance was now open, tied back with cord. Had it been so when the noyan had been inside, affording an archer a view of him? Falconer couldn't remember. One thing he was certain of, though. When he had observed the encampment from Oxford's walls, he was sure that one of the Tar
tar commander's bodyguard had stood in line with the opening and the walls. Unless the guard himself had fired the fatal arrow, it would have been difficult to shoot the commander through the opening. It only remained to discover whether there was a tear in the back of the tent where the arrow might have pierced it. He was starting to walk towards the little tent when David reappeared. The priest was startled to see that Falconer had moved, and hurried over to where the scholar now stood. Taking him firmly by the arm, he led him back to the main tent, glancing in fear back at the smaller one.
‘Chimbai – he is in the sacred tent. You cannot go in.’
‘But I must see the site of the crime – as the king's representative, it is essential I do so.’
David grimaced. ‘Then maybe tomorrow. Yes – tomorrow, I will arrange it.’
Falconer stared the priest in the eye, trying to ascertain if he or someone else in the camp had something to hide by the manoeuvre. David's eyes dropped to the ground, and he shuffled his feet on the dry, dusty earth.
‘Then, in that case, I will speak to everyone again. And you will help me.’
With that, Falconer bent down and pushed through the tent flap. Surprisingly, Yeh-Lu was the only one inside, and he sat impassively on the raised dais where Falconer had last seen the Tartar commander alive. A quizzical look crossed his features, and he made a point of addressing David in the guttural Tartar tongue. He obviously wasn't going to speak English to Falconer, or admit any further acquaintance beyond that on the night of the banquet. David translated what Yeh-Lu had said for Falconer's benefit.
‘He says – what more do you want?’
Falconer ignored the question. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Others?’
‘Guchuluk and the bodyguard.’
David smiled weakly. ‘They are in the other tent – Guchuluk's tent. He is in charge now, and we are excluded from the … military decisions.’