by Ian Morson
Bellasez overheard this last remark. ‘I said so, didn't I?’
Falconer could hardly believe that he had a witness to Bernard's murder, and eagerly posed the key question: ‘And what did you see then, after the … rabbi had gone?’
The old man sniffed haughtily. ‘I do not poke my nose into other people's business. I was here in the kitchen, and they were all in the hall.’
‘Then how do you know the second visitor was a Tartar … another member of the Lost Tribe?’
Bellasez looked slyly at Falconer, and pointed at the door in the far corner of the room. Bacon went over and opened it, poking his head out to see where it led. He reported his findings to Falconer.
‘You can see up the passage to the front door from here.’
The old man cupped his claw of a hand to his ear, obviously not able to hear clearly from across the room. Bacon spoke loudly for him:
‘You saw him from here.’
Bellasez cackled, and nodded his head at the newly shared secret. ‘I saw him all right, and I saw the other one – the blondhaired Christian – but he came later.’
‘But you didn't see what happened in the hall?’ muttered Falconer.
‘Eh?’ The old man raised his hand to his ear again.
‘Nor hear what happened either,’ concluded Bacon, staring glumly at the contented Bellasez. The sound of heavy footfalls in the adjacent room ended their fruitless interrogation of the senile old man. Sir Hugh had obviously returned with Peter Bullock. With no evidence to show that it had been anyone other than one of the Tartars, Falconer now had no way of stopping a very unpleasant incident taking place. At least he might persuade the constable to arrange its handling more delicately than Sir Hugh would choose. Falconer and Bacon returned to the grisly murder chamber, closing the kitchen door gently behind them.
‘William.’ Bullock was squatting over the huddled corpse, and turned a grim look on the two men as they entered the room. ‘It would appear that my vigilance has not prevented the Tartars infiltrating the city, and doing incalculable harm.’
‘And we should wipe them out now.’ Leyghton's words may have echoed Peter Bullock's sentiment, but the constable was canny enough to know that rushing hot-headed into the Tartar camp was not a wise move. Straightening his stiffened limbs with the help of his scabbarded sword, he laid a firm hand on Sir Hugh's arm.
‘Let me deal with this matter, my lord. I am appointed by the burgesses and aldermen of Oxford to uphold the law. And though I have no jurisdiction over the masters of this university, and must wait on the chancellor's pleasure –’ at these words he glowered at Falconer, who knew this restriction irked the constable – ‘… I can and will maintain the king's peace.’
Leyghton appeared to subside somewhat at this reassurance, and the invocation of the king's name. But he still did not fully give way. ‘I will agree to you dealing with it. But the monster should hang for what he has done, and not be allowed to buy his freedom – ambassador or not.’
Bullock stood his ground. ‘You have my word that the full force of the law will be invoked on the head of whoever did this deed.’ Leyghton nodded curtly. ‘Then I will go and talk to Brother Adam about arranging a decent burial for Bernard.’
Once he had left the room, Bullock breathed a great sigh of relief, and looked warily at Falconer. ‘I hope you aren't going to tell me it wasn't the Tartar, after all. For Sir Hugh will demand one of their heads, guilty or not.’
Falconer was about to speak, but it was Bacon who intervened:
‘You know, this is all a matter of timing, and if only we could measure time itself more accurately, it would help us reveal who did this.’ He waved a hand at the body at their feet, raising a cloud of flies that had settled on the drying blood spread in a pool across the floor.
Bullock looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Bacon began to pace the floor as if he were lecturing to a room full of students, oblivious to the pool of sticky blood; his pacing took him ever closer to though never into it. Neither Falconer nor Bullock could take their eyes off his dangerous course, even as they listened to his thesis.
‘We know that Brother Bernard had three visitors – the Tartar priest David, the other Tartar …’
‘Gutch-a-look.’
Bacon smiled at Bullock's mangled pronunciation. ‘Guchuluk. And Sir Hugh himself.’
‘You're not suggesting that Sir Hugh Leyghton did this!’ Bullock was horrified at the idea.
Bacon tipped his head to one side in thought, and then continued, ‘Now that you mention it – why should we not consider him? If we could only verify when the murder was committed, and when each of the three men was in the room with Bernard, it would be a simple matter to name the guilty party.’
Falconer sighed in disappointment – he had thought for a moment that his friend had a workable solution to the problem. ‘If each of their visits were days apart, and if someone saw the victim alive in the mean time, perhaps this would be possible. But to be able to split time between, say, sext and nones into a finite number of measuring moments …’ Falconer left the impossibility unspoken.
Bacon sighed deeply. ‘You are right. For now.’
Before Falconer could ask him to qualify his assertion, Bacon took his leave of the two other men, claiming a pressing matter of scientific investigation. Left with a corpse which was beginning to stink in the hot and stuffy confines of the room, Bullock and Falconer stepped out into the relatively more salubrious air of the fish market. Though one or two curious glances were cast their way, the events of the past hour were already fading in the traders' minds. A bloodied man; the arrival of the constable; the departure of the bloodied man unrestrained – clearly nothing much had occurred. And if murder had been committed, it would only have been on the body of a Jew-convert. And what was less significant than such a sorry creature? Even Falconer quickly forgot Bellasez, the almost-witness to the murder. The question uppermost in his mind was put into words by Bullock:
‘Is this connected to the murder of the old Tartar in any way, do you think?’
The constable used the epithet ‘old' for anyone beyond their middle years, despite the fact he himself was well beyond the age of those he so described. Walking beside the constable as they negotiated the crowd, Falconer could not help but think Bernard's death was connected to Chimbai's, coming so hard on its heels. And involving the same suspects. He nodded in confirmation.
‘Either Bernard saw who killed Chimbai, and the murderer knew this, and sought him out …’
Bullock broke in: ‘Which would explain Bernard's fear, and desire to hide away.’
‘… Or Bernard himself was the murderer, and Guchuluk sought to exact revenge on his own, without waiting for your good English justice to prevail. But –’
Bullock knew Falconer always found a but in any apparently straightforward proposition. He waited for the scholar to continue.
‘If Bernard were the killer, and Guchuluk knew, why would he seek revenge when, according to Roger, he wanted Chimbai dead himself?’
‘And the heretic priest?’
Bullock's reference to David troubled Falconer, for he hadn't seriously considered the priest as the murderer of Chimbai. He, of all of his fellow Tartars, seemed too afraid to have had the courage to do so. Still, if he were to talk to Guchuluk, he could at least sound out the interpreter at the same time. He was finding it difficult to understand what drove the Tartars, and it frustrated him. Then, for some reason, he suddenly recalled the plight of the elephant, languishing in the dingy stables of Oxford castle, and what Ann Segrim had said to him at their last meeting: If we understood its life, we might be able to save it. Perhaps if he really knew what these Tartars were like, he might understand the reason for Chimbai's death, and, as a consequence, Bernard de Genova's. No more Gog and Magog, or the Lost Tribes of Israel, or even the plague on mankind and anthropophagi. He had to see them as they were – ordinary human beings with the same weaknesses, lusts a
nd desires as the people bustling around him in the market.
‘Come, Peter. The time has come to find out the truth about these Tartars one way or the other.’
Chapter Fourteen
There on the mountains of Israel you shall fall, you, all your squadrons, and your allies; I will give you as food to the birds of prey and the wild beasts. You shall fall on the bare ground, for it is I who have spoken.
Ezekiel 39: 4–5
When Sir Hugh Leyghton returned again to the Domus Conversorum, he brought with him a stony-faced Adam Grasse and four Dominican brothers who could be trusted to keep what they saw a secret. Though the friars had been warned that Bernard's body had been defiled, they still were shocked by the sight that confronted them. The stench in the room was overpowering, and the flies that were disturbed by the men's entrance rose in an angry buzzing mass. The four brothers worked grimly at their task, wrapping the blood-stained body in a long white cloth, and bearing it sombrely out of the room on their shoulders. Brother Adam stared for a long time at the, by now, black stain on the hard clay floor, and the splashes that dotted the grubby wall. Suddenly he remembered there had been an inhabitant of this sorry place – an old man that Bernard had believed had cast off the Jewish faith and adopted Christianity. He would be in need of Christian charity now.
‘Where is Bellasez?’
Sir Hugh did not understand. ‘Who?’
‘The old Jew-convert who lives here. Bernard doted on him, as his only success. Has no one thought to look for him?’
Sir Hugh's face exuded concern. ‘I did not know there was anyone else here other than Bernard. No one said.’
Adam hurried through the door at the far end of the hall, and entered the kitchen. Leyghton heard his voice calling out, relief in his tone.
‘It's all right. The old man is here, and he's fast asleep.’
Sir Hugh crossed to the low arched door, and looked on the skeleton of a sleeping man hunched up in the corner of the hearth. He was covered in dusty ashes that made his patched robe look as grey as his skin – so much so that he resembled a ghost.
‘The poor man is very old,’ explained Grasse. ‘And probably didn't even know of Bernard's death. Or, if he did, it's gone from his mind already. I bless the forgetfulness of old age.’
‘He looks as good as dead already,’ opined Sir Hugh.
When Falconer and Bullock reached the Tartar camp, they saw nothing that would suggest Guchuluk was in fear of what their purpose might be. But then he had had plenty of time to prepare himself – the two Oxford men would have announced their arrival well in advance as they crossed the open meadow between the camp and the city. The flap of the tent formerly occupied by Chimbai was propped open, and a curl of smoke drifted lazily into the air from the opening in the top of the tent. Everything was arranged to suggest normality.
As the two men came closer, one of the soldiers, whom Falconer recognized as the man who had failed in his duty to guard Chimbai's life, stepped out of the tent. He motioned for Falconer and Bullock to stand where they were, and called back over his shoulder into the tent. After a while Guchuluk himself emerged, and waved the two men in with an apparently friendly gesture. They stooped to follow him into the tent, and were plunged into the darkness of the shady interior. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom inside, Falconer could see that Guchuluk was lounging on the raised platform formerly occupied by Chimbai. He was obviously making sure everyone – visitor and subordinate – was aware of his new status. Beside him stood a nervous David, fidgeting with the cross that hung from his neck. Yeh-Lu and the other soldiers were nowhere to be seen, unless they skulked behind the brightly coloured rugs that hung from the roof of the tent, dividing it into separate compartments. In the momentary silence Falconer listened, but there was no sound from behind the drapes – everything indicated that Guchuluk was prepared for a private exchange of views. Falconer crouched down, making himself as comfortable as he could. Bullock remained standing near the entrance to the tent, a mirror image of the soldier standing guard outside.
Guchuluk looked relaxed, and spoke directly at Falconer in his guttural tongue. As ever, David translated.
‘The Bahadur Guchuluk would offer you kemiz, but is not sure that your palate is subtle enough to appreciate its flavours.’
There was a smile on Guchuluk's lips as he listened to David's translation. Recalling Sir Hugh Leyghton's reaction, Falconer, too, smiled.
‘Tell him that we should all refrain from kemiz at the moment, as we are going to require clear heads.’
David turned to relay the words to Guchuluk, and Falconer noticed a bead of sweat appear on the priest's upper lip, glistening through the sparse moustache. Indeed, as Falconer and Guchuluk traded polite compliments, the priest's face began to glisten, and his movements became more and more jerky, as though he were not truly in control of himself. Falconer wondered if he could last much longer under the scrutiny of both men's gazes. With the exchange of amenities at an end, Falconer finally approached the matter of Chimbai's death. He knew Guchuluk would be expecting it, and would have marshalled his thoughts already. So he began with an innocent question:
‘Would you describe to me again what your men saw in the tent where Chimbai's body was?’
Guchuluk looked a little puzzled at the question, but, through David, answered it all the same.
‘There was no one else in the tent, save for Chimbai. He lay before the images of the god Tengri and his family.’
‘Could they have missed seeing someone – hidden behind Tengri, for example?’
On hearing the question translated, Guchuluk scoffed. ‘The images of the gods are made of felt, and are not that big.’
Falconer pondered for a moment. ‘How was the body found?’
‘I do not understand your question,’ stammered David, beads of sweat now springing up all over his face. ‘The soldiers found him – you know that.’
‘No.’ Falconer strove to keep patient. ‘I meant, in what position was he? On his back, or his front?’
David translated and the answer came back from Guchuluk.
‘On his back.’
‘What way round did the body lie?’
‘With his head towards the tent opening.’
Now was the time to ask a more pertinent question.
‘Were you angry that Chimbai was chosen over you to represent your nation to our king?’
Guchuluk snorted in disgust, and David translated his angry reply:
‘It was only the last efforts at wielding power by the Berke family – their death-throes, if you like. Their heads are buried in the past, constantly retelling the old stories of Dua the Oneeye. If they were to rule, we would be constantly fighting the old battles, and revenging the betrayal of Ambakkhai to the Golden Emperor. You call us Tartars, but we are Mongols and our ancestor Chinghis took revenge on the Tartar clan for his father's betrayal at the Ulkhui-Shilugeljit River more than fifty years ago.’ Guchuluk's tone softened, and Falconer listened with interest, half to the sound of his voice, and half to David's translation.
‘Now we must look forward – to trading and alliances. You call us beasts, but we can bring you many things – defeat of the Muhammadans, for one. The Great Khan, Kublay loves literature and science, especially of the Chin people – people like Yeh-Lu. You should see his winter palace at Cambaluc, the capital of Cathay – its walls are covered in gold and silver. It is enclosed by a wall four miles round, and inside it there is an enclosure within which there are parks and beautiful trees where deer, gazelles and animals that give musk live.’ Guchuluk's eyes had taken on a distant look as he retold the marvels of the court he had only seen once as a youth, when taken there by his father. ‘There is a hill made by art, on which stand hundreds of different trees, brought there bodily, roots and all, by Kublay's command. How does that make us beasts, and you so pure? Here, all I've seen is filth and smells. If we join with you, we can bring you turquoise stones, and silk embroidery from Ke
rman; pearls, and precious stones and spices from Hormos, as well as the sulphur cure for the itch and many other diseases; from Kamadi we can bring dates, pistachio nuts, and the apples of Paradise. Is this the work of monsters?’
The flat rendition of Guchuluk's words by David did not catch the impassioned intonations of the man, but Falconer understood him nevertheless. He was silent for a while, trying to remake his image of the Tartar in the light of the words he had just spoken. The young man presented a very different picture from the tales told of the Tartars, when Christendom had first encountered them barely thirty years earlier. And yet he still felt the contempt the young man had had for Chimbai, the old and drunken savage of a man who had been his superior. He still could be the killer – of the Noyan Chimbai and Bernard de Genova both.
Guchuluk stared at Falconer, knowing what was in the scholar's eyes. He let out a hiss of breath through his clenched teeth. Through David, he spoke curtly now.
‘I see I need to have someone else convince you that I did not kill the noyan, much as I might have wished it, and was glad of it when it happened. For it made my task all that much easier.’ Casting a glance over his shoulder at the rug that formed a backdrop to where he sat, he called out in a different tongue from his own. Something stirred behind the drape, and Falconer could sense the constable tensing behind him. The old man would never really trust the Tartars, the demons incarnate of his years as a soldier. Falconer would have liked to think he was not going to be surprised at who emerged to stand at Guchuluk's shoulder, but he was. Having ascribed the role of avenger to the Templar, it was difficult to place Guillaume de Beaujeu at the Tartar's right hand. But there was no mistaking the Frenchman's impassive features as he spoke quietly to Guchuluk in a tongue the man clearly understood. In fact, harsh words were clearly being exchanged, albeit in subdued tones, until de Beaujeu turned back to look at Falconer.
‘It is much against my better judgement that I have revealed myself to you here. And even more so that I am going to tell you what I am. But Guchuluk insists. He thinks it will rid him of your continual suspicions and interference into his affairs.’ Falconer thought he detected a small grin flicker across the Templar's lips. ‘Knowing you as I do, I fear it will not. But, I said I would try.’