by Ian Morson
Sir Hugh Leyghton was shocked by the import of what he heard Bernard confess. At first he could not believe it – didn't want to believe it – but somehow he knew it was true. For the second time today, he had been forced to eavesdrop at closed doors in order to discover what he needed to know. The first time, he had followed the meddling scholar Falconer and Adam Grasse back to Bernard's cell. He did not trust the friar, and needed to ensure Grasse kept his part of their bargain of secrecy about the missing man. At least Grasse had removed the bloodstained mattress in time, and replaced it with a clean one. Leyghton had convinced him that, by this means, he was ensuring that no suspicion would fall on the order concerning the death of the Tartar. And of course Leyghton knew the stratagem would also keep his embassy out of the mire of suspicion – until de Genova should be found. He only had to be sure he found him first.
Grasse had at first handled the Oxford scholar well, and Leyghton had been going to leave his post at the door when he was alarmed to hear Grasse weaken under the hectoring of the scholar, and almost admit Bernard's guilt. He had been on the point of bursting in on the interrogation when he, too, grasped the import of Grasse mentioning the House of Converts. Stopping only to ask a friar the location of the Domus, he had hurried through the thronging streets to keep ahead of Falconer. Without a plan in his head, he had been about to enter the Domus when he heard Bernard's voice coming from the other side of the door. He was talking with someone, and Sir Hugh did not want anyone else to know he was here. Once again he had stationed himself outside a closed door and eavesdropped – on Bernard's long and rambling confession.
Passing over Grandpont on his return from the Dominican friary, Falconer was surprised to find Roger Bacon seated on the low parapet, dangling his legs over the stream below. His grey Franciscan robe was pulled up to his thighs and his bare toes dripped water. The great ‘Doctor Admirabilis' had been paddling. Concerned that the man had at last lost his mind, Falconer tapped him gently on the shoulder. He was rewarded with a broad smile, and a cry of recognition.
‘William! Am I glad you are here – I have been meaning to talk to you. Have you been avoiding me?’
‘Me avoiding you? I have called on you, but you seemed more than a little preoccupied every time.’
Bacon grunted. ‘Maybe I have. But I was working on something requiring precision. And then I lost part of it, and had to go to the smith to get him to replace it. And the fool just didn't appreciate how accurate his work had to be. Still, you do not want to know my worries – it looks as though you have plenty of your own.’
He swung his legs off the parapet and pushed his toes into the discarded sandals that lay at the roadside. ‘Tell me what is on your mind, and perhaps I can help.’
Falconer, conscious that he wanted to get to the Domus Conversorum as soon as possible, decided it was still worth enlisting Bacon's help in assembling the few clues he had to Chimbai's murder. As they walked through the South Gate, he explained how the murder had taken place at around the time Bacon, Yeh-Lu and he were talking in Roger's tower. But that it had happened in a guarded tent, possibly by a very accurate or very lucky archer.
‘Many had reason to kill him, but none the opportunity, it seems,’ commented Falconer glumly. ‘I have discovered that the chancellor, de Ewelme, had employed a student on some secret mission. His name is Miles Bikerdyke, and he is reckoned a good archer. So that is a possibility. And anyone in the Tartar camp may have done it, but I have had little chance to uncover any motives because no one will talk to me.’
Bacon smiled. ‘I may be able to help you there. I travelled across the Channel with Chimbai and his entourage. And what I saw suggested there was no love lost between him and his young assistant.’
‘Guchuluk?’
‘That's the one. But tell me, why are we searching for a missing Dominican in connection with this murder?’
Falconer took a deep breath, and explained how he had suspected a Templar by the name of Guillaume de Beaujeu of the murder. But when he had confronted the man, de Beaujeu had convinced him of his innocence. He in turn, however, advised Falconer to check on another Templar. Or rather the younger brother of a Templar long dead. Therefore, by the most circuitous route, he was led to Sir Hugh Leyghton, the very man now in Oxford treating with the Tartars for the king, even though his Templar brother had been killed by Tartars. Moreover, Hugh Leyghton's secretary, Bernard de Genova, had been a fellow Templar of Leyghton's brother, only avoiding death at the hands of the Tartars twenty-seven years earlier by virtue of a riding accident. Though the connections were convoluted, and the whole story stretched the imagination, Bacon agreed there was more than sheer coincidence at play here.
‘And this same Bernard de Genova is the Dominican supposedly holed up in the Domus Conversorum?’
Falconer nodded. ‘And he was seen covered in blood on the day of the murder.’
‘Then your syllogism goes as follows: All murderers are bloodied; Bernard was bloodied; therefore Bernard is a murderer?’
Like some raw student, Falconer was drawn into nodding eager agreement. Bacon then triumphantly revealed the holes in the false argument.
‘Except my landlord, the skinner, is frequently bloodied due to his trade. And he is not a murderer – of men, anyway. And you said that the Tartar was killed with an arrow. Unless it was fired from within the tent, and at close quarters, the murderer would have escaped untainted. So your whole syllogism is fallacious.’
Falconer knew Bacon was right – the same thoughts had been in his head all along. But he had been reluctant to give them credence. There was, after all, something strange about Bernard's behaviour that demanded he find the man, and at least discover why he had been covered in blood, and why he was so scared.
Still the portentous words echoed in Bernard's skull.
Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven with the key of the abyss and a great chain in his hands. He seized the dragon, that serpent of old, the Devil or Satan, and chained him up for a thousand years; he threw him into the abyss, shutting and sealing it over him, so that he might seduce the nations no more till the thousand years were over … Then Satan will be let loose from his dungeon; and he will come out to seduce the nations in the four quarters of the earth.
He knew he had done wrong and deserved his punishment, so long delayed. So when he heard the footsteps and raised his head, he was not surprised by whom he saw. Satan had come to take his own, and he called out the name in his heart.
‘Geoffrey.’
Chapter Thirteen
I will bring you against my land, that the nations may know me, when they see me prove my holiness at your expense, O Gog.
Ezekiel 38: 16
When he later tried to put the confusion of events into their proper order, Falconer found it very difficult – even though he and Roger had witnessed the outcome themselves. What they had seen as they pushed through the mêlée that was the Fish Street market was an ashen Sir Hugh Leyghton emerging from the doorway of the Domus Conversorum. There was blood on his hands, and he left a long smear of it down the doorpost as he stumbled and clutched it to support himself. He took a deep breath, then, looking up, saw the two scholars staring at him in consternation. He moved his lips, but nothing more than a croak emerged. Taking another great gulp of air, he lurched towards Falconer and Bacon, and managed to speak:
‘He is dead – he has been murdered.’
Afterwards, Bacon insisted that Leyghton took some moments to make his statement. Falconer thought he called out immediately, as though he was intent on starting the hue and cry the moment he came out of the door. Whatever the truth of it, both men rushed over to Leyghton, who looked as though he were about to collapse.
Falconer spoke first: ‘Who is dead?’
Leyghton's face was bloodless, and his breathing shallow. He seemed unable to speak.
‘Is it Bernard?’
Sir Hugh managed a gloomy nod of the head. Falconer and Bacon both cautiously ent
ered the doorway set part-way into the grimy alley that ran through to the back yard of the house. They found themselves in the shabby hall of the Converts' House. Inside, it was difficult to see, as the shutters on to the street were closed, and only a narrow window high on the farthest wall shed light into the room. But as their eyes adjusted, the enormity of the deed became clear. The body of Bernard de Genova was indeed a sorry sight.
He was lying crumpled up on his right side, his knees tucked underneath him, and his arms extended. It was as though he had been kneeling in prayer when he was killed. It was obvious how he had died, for his neck had been slashed, and the wound gaped horribly, like an obscene mouth. There was blood all over his black Dominican habit, and a great gout of blood was splashed across the packed clay floor. The pressure of blood in the body had caused it to be expelled with great force – there were even splash marks and runnels on the far wall. Falconer guessed that unless the killer had stood behind him to cut his throat, he would be covered in Bernard's blood. And, even if he had, his hands would be bloody. The left side of Bernard's head was also a mess of matted hair and blood. The smell of death was overpowering, and both men compressed their lips, swallowing hard. Bacon was all for leaving, but Falconer knew he had to examine the body more closely, if he was not to lose more clues, as he had done with the disastrous burning of the Tartar tent. He bent over the body, his eye-lenses to his face, curious about the apparent second wound to the side of Bernard's face. As he was examining the body more closely and taking note of the old, healed cuts on Bernard's arms, Roger peered at something on the floor, poking it with the toe of his sandal. It was a pinkish lump, lying close to the edge of the lake of blood. He grunted in disgust, and Falconer looked round to see the find. He tentatively picked it up between the forefinger and thumb, and looked more closely. It was one of Bernard's ears, and it was still warm to the touch.
In the doorway, Sir Hugh groaned. ‘It's him – the Tartar. The monster's mutilated him, just as his fellow creatures did at Leignitz.’
Leyghton's whole frame was twitching, as though he were standing barefoot on hot coals. Falconer realized he would have to be kept occupied, or he would go blundering into the Tartar camp demanding Guchuluk's surrender. He might even try to slaughter him before the eyes of his fellow soldiers, and the consequences of that could be unimaginable for the town and university. He quickly asked Leyghton to alert the authorities in the shape of the town constable.
‘We need him here as soon as possible, Sir Hugh, so that we are seen to act swiftly but within the law.’
Leyghton hesitated for but a moment, holding his bloodstained hands in the air as if in mute accusation. Then he nodded curtly, and left the two men alone, agitatedly wiping his hands down the sides of his embroidered surcoat. Bacon waited until he had gone, then he looked thoughtfully at Falconer.
‘Could it have been Guchuluk? Did you see him out there, too?’
Falconer knew what Bacon meant. Before Sir Hugh had come staggering out of the Domus, he had been sure he had spotted the Tartar weaving his way through the press of people in the market. At first all he saw was someone oddly clad for the hot and sticky day – the cloaked and hooded shape of a stocky man hurrying north towards Carfax. But as the figure pushed through the crowd, he looked back fleetingly, and Falconer was sure he recognized the sallow features of Guchuluk under the hood. Before he could say anything to Bacon, Sir Hugh had appeared, and the moment had passed. And perhaps he was just remembering how Yeh-Lu had disguised himself, and imagining something more sinister about what he saw. Maybe it was just a man who felt the cold. But now it seemed that his suspicions were confirmed. He waved the severed lump of flesh in the air, and shrugged.
‘It seems to point to the Tartars – who else would do this? Who else was here?’
As if in response to his question, a strange ululation echoed round the grim chamber. Bacon looked sharply at Falconer, and motioned him into silence with a finger to his lips. Soon they heard the sound again, this time more like a chant or incantation. Bacon pointed towards the rear door to the hall, and Falconer nodded. It certainly seemed to be coming from behind it. They both tiptoed over to the door, which stood slightly ajar, and listened intently at the crack. Though the chanting had stopped, Falconer thought he could now hear a shuffling sound, like the padding back and forth of some wild creature. He wondered if whatever it was behind the door had killed Brother Bernard, not a human agency after all. There was only one way to find out.
Gesturing at Bacon to stand back, he pushed the door open a crack, and peered round. He was looking into the kitchen, with a large open hearth at one end, and a scarred and grubby table in the middle. A line of dusty pots against one wall stood as mute testimony to the infrequent use of the room, and a second door in the right-hand wall probably led out into the rear yard. An unpleasant odour of stale fat hung in the air, mixed with a more rank aroma of a long unwashed body. At the table, knife in hand, stood a very old man with a long straggly beard. His dome of a head was liver spotted, and all but devoid of hair. The hands that held the knife between them were like claws, the knuckles no more than knobbly bones with veined parchment stretched over them. The ancient was trying to cut himself some bread, and muttering incoherently through slack and dribbling lips. His renewed and unconcerned caterwauling emboldened Falconer to swing the door fully open and step into the room. As he did so, the old man looked up, and cackled.
‘Yet more visitors. Indeed, we are blessed today – there haven't been so many visitors since …’
He obviously couldn't recall a time that compared with this moment, and returned to his task of hacking the loaf of bread apart. He also began to mumble to himself under his breath, but Falconer could not make it out. Bacon spoke up from behind Falconer's shoulder, uncertainty in his voice:
‘You don't think he could have killed the Dominican, do you?’ Falconer shook his head. ‘Look at his hands, they are bent with the crippling disease. He can hardly hold a knife to cut bread, let alone hack an ear off.’
Bellasez came from behind the table, revealing dusty buskins with holes worn in them, through which poked the old man's toes. He shuffled past Falconer, and perched himself on a stool by the hearth. Apparently unaware of what had happened next door, he gnawed contentedly at the crust of bread with his toothless gums.
‘Do you think he saw anything?’ Bacon's doubtful question reminded Falconer what the old man had said when he first entered the room. He leaned casually against the wooden beam that topped the hearth, as though he had just dropped in for an exchange of gossip with the old man.
‘So we're not the first visitors you've had today, then?’
Two rheumy eyes were turned on Falconer, indignation etched into them.
‘Indeed not. Nor the most important – for who are you?’ Before Falconer could offer their names, the old man pressed on. ‘I will tell you – by the state of your clothes you're nothing more than a pair of impecunious scholars … And there's plenty of those in this town, I can tell you.’
Falconer smiled ruefully. Both he and Bacon did indeed dress shabbily – who could deny it? Though to be reminded of it by someone whose own clothes were no more than rags was rather irksome. The old man eagerly continued:
‘Today, I have seen the Lost Tribe.’
The Lost Tribe? Falconer did not understand. Bellasez saw the confusion in his eyes, and spoke to him as to a child:
‘The Lost Tribes of Israel – sent by God into exile in the East. They have come back, and he sent me for them. Get the Rabbi David, he said, and I did. He came here and heard the friar confess his sins.’
Realization dawned for Falconer. ‘The Tartar priest, David – he came here?’
‘Go to the Tartars, find the priest David, that's what he said. He said priest, but he meant rabbi. They are Israelites. Anyway, priest or rabbi, I brought him, and the friar confessed to him.’
‘Confessed? To what?’ Bellasez irritatingly ignored Falconer's question
s, and pressed on with his story.
‘Then the other one came too. There was some scuffle, and the rabbi left.’
‘The other one?’ Falconer hoped he meant Guchuluk, but didn't want to jump to conclusions. ‘You mean Sir Hugh?’
Bellasez looked quizzically at Falconer, not knowing the name. So Falconer described Leyghton for him. Bellasez pulled a face in annoyance. ‘No, no. He came later. No, I mean another of the Lost Tribe came.’
Bacon touched Falconer's arm and spoke quietly: ‘Can he mean Guchuluk?’
‘Probably – he was the only other Tartar who came into the city, as far as we know. But the old man thinks the Tartars are the Lost Tribes of Israel.’
‘Then Guchuluk was definitely here – inside the Domus.’