Falconer and the Great Beast

by Ian Morson

  Bernard called out in his sleep, but the nightmare was destined to continue to its inexorable end. The flight of the Tartar army had been a trap, and the Templar and Hospitaller knights, blundering around in the smoke, were cut down by a hail of arrows. When it cleared, all Bernard could see were bodies, a mountain of corpses, covered in blood. At the top of the horrendous mound lay Geoffrey, his breast pierced by a dozen arrows. His face swam into view, contorted and fearful, with gouts of dark blood pouring from the corners of his eyes like tears. As Bernard looked on in horror, the flesh fell from Geoffrey's face, leaving a bleached and eyeless skull. All around was the stink of rotting bodies – the stench filled the sleeping man's nostrils. He tossed and turned, his face screwed up in revulsion. Then he was alone with Geoffrey, cradling him in his arms. He looked down into the horror of his face, and his bony jaw opened, creaking like an un-oiled door. Geoffrey began to speak.

  Bernard awoke with a start, sweating, knowing he would never hear Geoffrey's last words. The nightmare always ended at this point in the awful saga. He rolled from the narrow cot on which he lay and pulled his rumpled, stinking robe into some semblance of order. He had not washed or changed his linen since seeking refuge in the Domus Conversorum, and every night the visions came, haunting him and drenching him in sweat. He knew his one companion, Bellasez, did not care about the smell – he rarely washed himself. The malodorous nature of the Jew-convert had irritated the normally fastidious Bernard in the past. Now, he did not notice the smell of his companion, nor could he care less about the state of his own body. And where the ramblings of the old man had annoyed him beyond comprehension as he strove for his soul, he now quite enjoyed his undemanding company. At least Bellasez did not ask how he had come to be in the state he was, and why he did not leave the house.

  He had spent a few blessed days imagining he could ignore the world and what he had done, blanking his mind to the consequences. But in the early hours of this morning, he had fancied he could hear the matins bell ringing at Trill Mill, and knew he must set matters right. Rousing the bewildered Bellasez from his bed, he had sat with him in the dark, tutoring the old man in what he had to do and say as soon as it got light. Bellasez had nodded, splashing spittle down the front of Bernard's black robe. The friar had not been sure if the Jew-convert really understood, but he was Bernard's only hope. He sent Bellasez on his way, and closed the door behind him quickly, so as not to be noticed by the tradesmen, who were already beginning to stir on what was another ordinary day for them. A day of reckoning for Bernard. Exhausted, he had returned to his cot, and fallen straight back to sleep. It had been then that the nightmare had returned.

  Making his way across the marshy ground towards the Dominican friary, Falconer wondered what the import of Guillaume de Beaujeu's words might be. He had suggested Falconer speak to Sir Hugh Leyghton about his brother Geoffrey, who was a Templar. Did he mean that Geoffrey was likely to have killed Chimbai? But for what reason? If Sir Hugh held the key to the puzzle, then he would get the truth out of him one way or another. The king's ambassador was staying at the Dominican friary, where one of their number was acting as his secretary. With the puzzle niggling at his brain, Falconer resolved to follow this loose thread, even though the weave of clues was beginning to unravel in many directions at once. He hoped that this might be the one clue to provide him with a framework to hold everything together.

  At first the friary appeared as calm and peaceful as it always did, with the Black Friars going about their business in their usual purposeful way. But when he asked a friar in the herb garden if Sir Hugh Leyghton was still lodged in the guest house, he detected an undercurrent of unease. The friar remained bent over his weeding, and mumbled some words that were lost in the hood that slipped over his shoulders as he kept to his task. Falconer frowned at this unusual discourtesy, but continued on his way. Crossing the courtyard in front of the guest quarters, he was aware of eyes following him, and he turned round in time to see the back of a friar scurrying into the day chapel. He wondered what Sir Hugh might have done to warrant such odd behaviour. Maybe he would soon find out.

  He stepped from the bright sunshine into the unlit lower hall of the guest quarters, so it was a few moments before he saw Sir Hugh and Brother Adam Grasse standing in a huddle over the fireplace. It was not for the sake of warmth, for the day was hot, and cold ashes lay in the hearth. Both men were looking over their shoulders guiltily, as if caught in some sort of conspiracy. Falconer stood in the doorway, uncertain of his ground. It was the friar who first recognized Falconer, and strode over, followed by Sir Hugh, who was clearly having some difficulty remembering where he had seen the master before. Then comprehension dawned, and he recalled the self-assured scholar whom he had mistaken for the chancellor the night of the Tartar banquet. His natural joviality somewhat fabricated today, Grasse pressed Falconer's right hand in both his warm, slippery palms, and asked him what he could do for him.

  Falconer smiled. ‘In fact, it is Sir Hugh that I am seeking.’

  Leyghton's eyebrows shot up in curiosity, and he exchanged a glance with Brother Adam. The portly friar took the hint, and left the two men together. Leyghton looped his thumbs through the heavy belt at his waist, and assumed a casual air that sat ill with his earlier guilty expression.

  ‘What is it you want of me, Master … er … Falconer. I am a busy man, with the king's business to attend to. The death of the Tartar has not put an end to the negotiations I must undertake.’

  ‘Indeed, it is the noyan's death that I am here to enquire about. And the whereabouts of your brother.’

  Leyghton paled and rocked back on his heels. A hiss of breath escaped his lips, then he recovered himself. His reply was not at all what Falconer had expected.

  ‘My elder brother, Geoffrey – and I have no other brother, so it must be he you are asking about – has been dead these twentyseven years past. So if you think he killed the Tartar, you could not be more in error. Though if he lived, he would have good reason to kill, for many of his comrades died alongside him as a result of a cowardly manoeuvre by the Tartar army at Leignitz.’

  Falconer knew of the slaughter at Leignitz, of course. He had been a young man at the time, and the destruction of the flower of Christian chivalry by these mysterious monsters from the East had reverberated around the world. So Geoffrey Leyghton had died there. Then what had de Beaujeu meant by his comment – or had Falconer misconstrued it? Had he meant the brother – the man standing before Falconer – could be the murderer? But Sir Hugh had been in Shrewsbury meeting the king at the time, hadn't he? Trying to recover from this further blow to his investigation, he said the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘He was a Templar?’

  ‘Yes, and I was proud of him, and modelled my life on him, though I have not taken the Templar vows. I am my parents' only child now, and must continue the family line. Celibacy is not an option for me.’

  ‘And all his comrades died with him, you say?’

  Leyghton nodded grimly. ‘Except for one, whose leg had been broken falling from his horse the day before the battle. He lived, but with considerably more broken than his leg after that day. He left the order, but didn't abandon his faith, and became a Dominican friar.’

  ‘Do you know where he now lives?’

  ‘Of course. You saw him with me in the Tartar's tent. His name is Brother Bernard – Bernard de Genova.’

  Falcolner saw the slenderest of threads being offered him.

  ‘And might I speak with Brother Bernard?’

  Leyghton smiled grimly. ‘That is impossible. You see, what I was discussing with Brother Adam when you arrived was the apparent disappearance of Bernard. He had not been seen for days.’

  Falconer's face clouded over, and he stared intently at the knight, wondering if Brother Bernard was really missing, or if he, Falconer, was being deliberately kept from pursuing his goal. Leyghton guessed what was in his mind.

  ‘Let Brother Adam show you Berna
rd's cell, if you like. And ask the rest of the Black Friars. After all, not everyone can be in this conspiracy of silence you so obviously suspect me of.’

  Falconer curtly nodded his head, and went in search of Adam Grasse. The fat man seemed happy to show Falconer Bernard's cell. But to Falconer's disappointment, there was nothing there to assist his investigation. The cell was stark and cool, with nothing to distinguish it from any other friar's cell. Falconer took in the large crucifix hung on the lime-washed walls directly over the head of the narrow bed, and the simple lectern that stood in one corner. There was no candle nor even runnels of molten wax at the lectern to suggest anyone had stood there recently. He crossed over to the bed, and lifted the woollen blanket that covered the thin mattress, feeling the surface of the ticking with his hand. Everything was pristine, clean and cold. Either Bernard de Genova was inordinately tidy, or his room had been cleaned of anything that might suggest his involvement with the murder of Noyan Chimbai.

  When Falconer looked up at Adam Grasse, his hand still resting on the mattress, he saw a shifty look in the friar's eyes. Then, though the friar held his gaze, a ruddy flush started on his neck and crept inexorably over his pallid cheeks. Falconer was not going to let him escape.

  ‘Has this cell been cleaned since Bernard disappeared?’

  Grasse's reddening cheeks quivered. ‘I am not sure what you are implying.’

  Noticing that the friar had evaded his question, Falconer nevertheless continued. The evasion was sufficient confirmation of his suspicions.

  ‘Is there something about Brother Bernard's past that it was necessary to hide?’

  ‘I … I'm not sure I know what you mean. Bernard was a Templar before he joined the Order of St Dominic, and I am sure he led a blameless life before he came here.’

  By now Grasse's face was a uniform red, and he clearly wished he were not in Falconer's presence. The regent master pressed home his advantage.

  ‘And recently? In conducting his daily business in and around the friary. Or in his capacity as Sir Hugh's secretary.’

  The friar coughed nervously, prepared to offer Falconer something at least to explain his embarrassment. ‘He … er … did seem sorely troubled at the time of the first meeting with the Tartars. And …’

  Grasse hesitated, and Falconer urged him on: ‘And what?’

  Somehow, though Grasse had wanted to keep this quiet, the sharp-eyed scholar seemed to draw confidences out of him. ‘He was seen returning to the friary by the night gate the morning the body was discovered in the Tartar camp. One of the lay brothers, going to ring the matins bell, says he saw Brother Bernard enter his cell, and close the door.’

  ‘What sort of state was he in?’

  ‘State? The lay brother did not say, other than that he was worried about the brother because …’ The friar was still reluctant, but finally he said what was on his mind: ‘… because he thought he saw blood on Bernard's face.’

  ‘And where did you think he had been?’

  ‘Been?’ The normally self-assured Grasse now realized he had been sucked into telling more than he had intended. Now he was reduced to repeating Falconer's questions while desperately trying to plan his response.

  ‘You must have been concerned that a brother was breaking the rules of the order, and sneaking around at night.’

  Grasse suddenly found himself on easier ground, huffing and puffing self-righteously at the suggestion his order lived merely by rules. ‘We are not like some of the older monastic orders, whose life has become a sterile repetition. We Dominicans are here for a purpose. And Brother Bernard, most of all, concerned himself with teaching and practical work. Why, he gladly took over the running of the Jewish Converts' House recently, and immersed himself in the work of conversion.’

  He suddenly stopped, and gasped. Falconer finished the friar's thought for him:

  ‘And no one tried the Converts' House when Bernard disappeared?’

  Grasse dropped his eyes. ‘I'm afraid not.’

  ‘Then I will go and look for you.’ Falconer imagined he heard a noise outside in the cloister, but by the time he had crossed the little room and lifted the stiff and cumbersome latch on the door, he could see no one in the vicinity of Bernard's cell. Maybe it had been imagination, but he wondered where Sir Hugh was now. As he set off to find Bernard, the fat Breton called after him:

  ‘I shall pray that you find Brother Bernard safe and well.’

  The recipient of Adam Grasse's prayers was at that moment himself praying for forgiveness. Before him stood the somewhat disconcerted Kerait Mongol and Nestorian Christian, David. He had been abruptly roused from his far-from-peaceful slumbers by Sigatay. Opening his bleary eyes, he saw that the churlish soldier had an unaccustomed grin spread across his pock-marked face.

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  Thinking he was the butt of some soldier's joke, David had protested at being woken up, and pulled the animal skin back over his head. Sigatay cursed him roundly, and kicked him in the small of the back.

  ‘I think he wants to see you now. Or shall I tell the bahadur that he's here?’

  The last thing David wanted was for Guchuluk to be dragged out of his bed to find his interpreter receiving a visitor from the English. He had felt the bahadur's eyes on him for the last couple of days, and was trying hard to remain inconspicuous. Better to be the butt of Sigatay's joke than incur Guchuluk's anger and suspicion. Grumbling at being disturbed, in order to cover his fear, David rose and poked his head out of the yurt's door flap. What he saw resembled a skeleton that had been decked in pauper's clothes and animated by strings. The old man, if he truly were a living creature, hopped from one bootless foot to the other, and muttered continually under his breath. Spotting the priest, and the cross that hung round his neck, he suddenly shot forward and rattled off an incantation. Making a fearful sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits, David shrank back towards the safety of the yurt, still not sure if a game was being played with him. The demon repeated his incantation, this time more slowly, and David recognized some of the words.

  In the midst of other expostulations, Bellasez managed, ‘Find the priest David … I have a confession. May the Lord help me, I can remember no more.’

  Even then, David might have dismissed the apparition as a madman – who in this land would want to confess to a foreign priest, holding beliefs heretical to the Church of Rome? But the old man grabbed his wrist with a claw that was unexpectedly strong, and pulled him out of the yurt. So, not without trepidation, David had allowed himself to be brought to Bernard de Genova. The only difficult moment was when his captor dragged him past the scrutiny of the stallholders inside the city walls, but they ignored his sallow skin and the Eastern cast to his face, assuming, as he was in the company of Bellasez, that he was another mad Jew.

  Now he was beginning to wonder who was truly mad – himself, the ancient who dragged him here, or the religious who knelt before him. The friar was clad all in black, which made his pasty face all the more ghastly. The wild look in his eyes spoke of torment the like of which the Nestorian could not conceive. And he babbled incessantly, mingling personal tales with passages from the Bible and mad interpretations that David little understood. He could do no more than place a consoling hand on the friar's head, while the old man who had brought him to this madhouse looked benignly on. Meanwhile Bernard de Genova developed his thesis.

  ‘Like everyone in the West, I saw your people as monstrous and inhuman, and something to be expunged. But are we not taught that God created every race of men of one stock, to inhabit the whole earth's surface? But still I could see no farther than the pain of the lost souls around me. I cursed your kind, and I have plotted death. But the other night, I was visited with a vision. If you truly are a plague on mankind, as was written, then you are but the tool of a vengeful God sent against a sinful world. Is it not written in Revelation – “God said, Release the four angels held bound at the River Euphrates. So the four angels were let
loose to kill a third of mankind. And their squadron of cavalry, whose count I heard, numbered two hundred million.”’

  Bernard clutched hard at David's quilted jacket, and drew in a great breath that racked his body to its core.

  ‘If you truly are the hammer of God, then you should strike me, for I have sinned against God, and deserve to be punished. And I know the cause of your leader's death.’

  David paled, not daring to believe what the friar had just said, but afraid to ask him to repeat it. This was dangerous knowledge indeed. He began to rack his brain as to how he was going to cope with this, while Bernard continued reciting Revelation, lost in the smoke of the battle of Leignitz:

  ‘“And the horses had heads like lions' heads, and out of their mouths came fire, smoke, and sulphur. By these three plagues, that is, by the fire, the smoke, and the sulphur that came from their mouths, a third of mankind was killed.”’

  The Bahadur Guchuluk was feeling peculiarly exposed. Having decided to keep an eye on the priest, he had been put in a dilemma when the madman had dragged David away from the Tartar camp towards the city. But it had not taken him long to come to the conclusion that this might be the only opportunity he had to find out what the man was doing. Perhaps he had formed an alliance with his co-religionists, and was now going to meet them. Guchuluk flung a hooded cloak over his distinctive quilted jackets and woollen trousers, and crossed the open meadow at an angle to the route David and his guide were taking. Keeping them in sight, he made his way directly towards the hovels that lined the approach to the North Gate. Having passed down a narrow alley and on to the main thoroughfare, he joined the steady stream of travellers that was beginning to fill the dusty road.

  He lost sight of his quarry momentarily as they entered the gate, and he hesitated in case he was uncovered. But to his disgust at the lack of security, he walked unchallenged through the now bustling gateway. As it was early morning, the street was not as full as it would be a few hours later, and he glanced around to find the two men. He saw them instantly, for the old madman was waving his arms in the air, and barking some incantation to the heavens. This would be an easy pursuit. He followed them through the market and across an intersection of highways at the centre of the city. He couldn't help noting in his mind details that might stand him in good stead should they ever need to mount an attack on the city. It was while his gaze was thus diverted that they disappeared. He almost panicked, remembering that he could not ask anyone where they might have gone. Then he spotted an open door in a narrow, drab-looking building squashed between the stalls of two fishmongers. Even as he peered into the gloom behind the door, it closed on him. He had to assume that was where his quarry had gone to ground. Looking around, he saw across the street a large building with a tower. And at the base of the tower was a bolted door set in a deep recess. There he settled himself in the shadows of the stone arch, hoping he looked like a beggar availing himself of a cosy nook to rest. The strategy obviously worked, for none of the market traders or their early-morning customers gave him a second look. Now all he had to do was to be patient, and await his opportunity.