by Ian Morson
As if suddenly aware of David's presence, Guchuluk put a hand on de Beaujeu's arm, and spat out a curt command to his interpreter. The priest paled, but bowed and stepped out of the tent into the late-afternoon sun. Allowing a few moments to pass, Guchuluk was obviously satisfied that the man was out of earshot, and made a sign for de Beaujeu to continue. By way of explanation, the Templar said that he and Guchuluk spoke together in the Turkish tongue, which they both understood. It had kept what they planned strictly between themselves. ‘For it would not do for the rest of Christendom to know what the Grand Master plans as yet. Do you understand what I am saying?’ He stared hard at both Falconer and Bullock. Both men understood perfectly – de Beaujeu would only help their enquiry if they kept their mouths shut about the Tartar and the Templar. A silent agreement was all that de Beaujeu needed, and he proceeded to explain why he was here. It appeared that he and Guchuluk had met in secret several times now, agreeing how the Tartars would aid the Templars in the Holy Land. Secrecy was essential at this stage of negotiations, for Count Bohemund had been excommunicated by the pope for just such an alliance.
‘Then what is different now?’ Falconer was curious to know how the Grand Master of the Templars would bring the pope to his way of thinking this time. De Beaujeu's eyes sparkled. ‘You know the story of Prester John?’
Of course Falconer knew the ancient legend of Prester John. He was a mythical Eastern Christian prelate, who, at a time of crisis for Christendom, it was predicted, would emerge from the fastnesses and help liberate the Holy Land. It was nonsense – the stuff of children's bedtime stories. Did a sane man such as de Beaujeu really believe it?
‘It matters not whether I believe it or not. The Grand Master has a letter – an ancient letter – purporting to come from the presbyter himself. It will convince the ignorant and the hopeful of his true existence. And now, when many Tartars are converting to Christianity, the mantle of Prester John can easily be hung around their shoulders.’
Falconer had always known there was something of the pragmatist about de Beaujeu. The Templar wasn't as gullible as his Grand Master, but he could see the value of allowing others to believe. So he didn't need any more convincing that what de Beaujeu said was true. All along, he had not been stalking the Tartars, but had been negotiating an alliance with the old Templar demon.
‘I won't even remind you of the necessity of using a long spoon in such circumstances,’ murmured Falconer. ‘But tell me, how does this help my investigation into Chimbai's death?’
De Beaujeu smiled bleakly. ‘Simple. Guchuluk was with me when Chimbai was killed. So he could not have been his murderer.’
‘And Bernard de Genova?’
‘What of him?’
‘Where was Guchuluk when Bernard de Genova was killed?’
De Beaujeu grimaced, clearly not aware of the demise of Sir Hugh Leyghton's secretary. He shot a question in Turkish at Guchuluk. The Tartar's face reddened, but he shook his head in denial.
‘He says he does not know this man – why are you accusing him of his murder?’
‘He does not know him, yet he was seen in his house at the time Bernard's throat was cut, and his ear chopped off. Does that not remind you of one of the Tartars' more endearing habits?’
Once again de Beaujeu taxed the Tartar in the tongue they shared, thus excluding Falconer from the conversation, much to his annoyance. He had taken Ann's indirect suggestion and tried to understand the Tartars, but he was still hampered by not speaking their language. As the conversation between the two men grew heated, Falconer became more and more anxious to hear the import of Guchuluk's words. He interrupted the Templar in mid-sentence:
‘What is he saying?’
‘If you'll allow me to finish, I will tell you.’
Guchuluk barked a further command, and de Beaujeu, though looking quizzical, translated for Falconer.
‘He says he did go to the house of a black-clad man with a bald head – I suppose he means a tonsure – but he was only following the Nestorian priest to find out what he was doing.’ De Beaujeu looked briefly at Guchuluk, who nodded, and gestured at Falconer, as if to say, get on with it. ‘He asked the priest what he had told the shaven-headed man. Demanded he tell him, is a clearer translation. David told him the man – de Genova, I suppose – had asked him to listen, not talk. I think by ‘listen' he means David heard de Genova's confession, though I cannot be sure. Then Guchuluk sent David back to camp. He was going to leave himself, but Genova grabbed his sleeve and gabbled something he could not understand. He says the man was incoherent most of this time anyway, muttering some sort of ritualistic chant under his breath.’
‘And nothing happened?’
‘He says he gave up trying to find out what David had been up to when he heard someone trying to open the street door. He did not wish to be found in Oxford, so he left through the kitchen.’ Falconer thought immediately of Bellasez. ‘Through the kitchen?
Are you sure?’
De Beaujeu sighed, and asked Guchuluk a question. The Tartar nodded and added something in Turkish.
‘He says, ask the old man who was there – he would have seen him.’
So at least Guchuluk knew of Bellasez, and his presence in the kitchen. That was reasonable proof of that part of his statement. But was de Genova dead by then? If Guchuluk were the killer, he wouldn't tell, and the senile Bellasez couldn't tell.
‘He also says he waited until the visitor – whoever it was – had been admitted, before he left by way of the side alley.’
‘Admitted? I suppose by saying that he hopes to suggest Bernard was still alive. But the visitor could have let himself in, and found Bernard dead. If Bellasez is to be believed, the next person to arrive was Sir Hugh Leyghton, and he found Bernard dead.’
Falconer had to wait in frustration again whilst de Beaujeu spoke to Guchuluk. This time he didn't really need a translation – Guchuluk spoke briefly, but his main response was an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.
‘He says, maybe it was David at the door. Maybe he came back. Ask the old man.’
‘Perhaps I should ask David first why he might want to kill Bernard. Let's get him back in here.’
De Beaujeu translated Falconer's request, and Guchuluk called out to the guard at the entrance to the tent. The reply was prompt, and worrying. It appeared that, after having slunk around the back of the yurt, where he was in a position to have overheard their conversation, David had last been seen hurrying towards the city.
He had found it very easy to gain access to the House of Converts. As dusk fell, there was always a lull in the habitual bustle of Oxford's streets. The shopkeepers had gathered up their wares, stored them inside the little shops that formed the lower floor of most of the houses on Fish Street, and closed the shutters, which, let down, doubled as counters during the day. If they were fortunate, they returned to their pliant wives, and a well-deserved supper. Those who had no wives, or wives who did not do their bidding, retired to the consolations of the nearest ale-house to spend what they had earned during the day. It was only later that the rowdy students thronged the streets, alleviating their boredom with a little mischief-making. And tonight, apparently, was going to be a night for mischief – the word had gone about.
For now, the street in which the Domus Conversorum stood was virtually empty of people, and those who were abroad paid no attention to the dark-clad figure who entered the building. They were used to seeing Dominicans come and go in their attempts to convert the Jews. Most thought it would be easier to just get rid of them – banish them from England's shores for good. Then they would also be rid of the Converts' House, the synagogue, and all the Christ-murdering Jews in their neighbourhood. But they understood the friars' desire to carry out God's work, and ignored their comings and goings at the house.
Once inside, he could smell the rank odour of blood. As he passed from room to room in his search, it seemed to follow him, as though it pervaded the whole house. Or perhaps it j
ust hung in his own nostrils, and would never leave him wherever he went. He looked in the kitchen, but could not find what he sought. Returning to the hall, he skirted the dark stain that had spread across the uneven floor, fearful he might step into a still-damp pool of blood lurking in the cracks of the hard-packed clay. He went up the stairs cautiously, almost every step complaining at the weight he put on it. It was like a chorus of inhuman groans that he could not suppress, accompanying his every move through this house. But what he was there for had to be done, if he were not to be found out.
His grim resolve was weakened, however, when he got to the top of the stairs and was confronted by a spectre. The gaunt and fleshless face of Brother Bernard hovered in the dark before him. He gave an involuntary cry of alarm, before the flame of a candle resolved the skeletal shape into the less alarming reality of the old man, Bellasez – a tallow candle in his claw of a fist illuminating his features from below his chin. Without further thought, the intruder leaped up the final step, and swung his clenched fist wildly at Bellasez's head. There was a sickening crunch as his knuckles made contact with the frail egg-like shell of the skull, and the old man fell insensate at his feet.
Chapter Fifteen
They shall take no wood from the fields nor cut it from the forest but shall light their fires with weapons. Thus they will plunder their plunderers and spoil their spoilers.
Ezekiel 39: 10
Falconer and Bullock, now concerned for Bellasez's safety, pushed through the flap of the Tartar tent, and began to hurry across the darkening meadow towards the city and North Gate. Bullock's head was full of questions and he gasped them out as he strove to keep up with the long-legged regent master.
‘Do you think this priest killed the Tartar, and then de Genova for some reason?’
‘And what reason could that have been, do you think?’ Falconer threw his response over his shoulder, hardly breaking his fast pace.
‘Maybe Bernard saw him kill Chimbai, and he was silencing the only witness to his crime.’
Falconer stopped in his tracks, and frowned at the panting constable. ‘It is difficult enough to place someone in the tent at the time of the murder, what with the three guards surrounding the tent. But to place Bernard as a witness thereabouts also …’ Falconer left the impossibility unspoken, and resumed his loping pace across the grassy meadow. Bullock pondered the problem for a while, then thought of an alternative solution to the mystery of David's disappearance. He hurried after Falconer.
‘Maybe the Dominican killed Chimbai, and David killed him in revenge. He is supposed to have heard de Genova's confession, after all. He was so angered at learning of the murder, he slipped back into the house after he assumed Gutch-a-look had gone, and did away with the noyan's killer. Now he has learned that he might have left a potential witness to this second death in the house, and is on his way to eliminate him. Isn't that why you're in such a hurry? Admit it.’
Falconer grunted. ‘Something like that, but I think …’ Bullock was not to know then what Falconer thought, because they were both distracted by a mass of bobbing lights streaming out of both North Gate straight ahead and Smith Gate to their left. The men were stopped in their tracks, and before Falconer could fumble his eye-lenses up to his face, Bullock saw what was afoot.
‘Someone has shoved a stick into the wasps' nests that are your students halls, and stirred it around.’
With the lenses to his eyes, Falconer could see that the bobbing lights were flaming torches held by a mob of young men, advancing on the Tartar encampment. They were mainly dressed in the drab homespun of the poorer students, who would do anything for a few coins and a drink. But Falconer could also discern the odd brightly coloured gown of some noble's son. They got involved in trouble just for the hell of it. As the mob approached, their incoherent cries soon resolved into individual demands for the expulsion of the ‘beasts and monsters' that besmirched their fields. At close quarters, both men could see that most of the students carried weapons – mainly staves and clubs – but a few swords were also apparent. One youth, prominent at the head of the mob, was carrying a bow.
‘You are right,’ muttered Falconer. ‘Someone has stirred them up, and I know who. This is the work of the chancellor.’
‘De Ewelme? Why?’
‘He said he was going to rid himself of the Tartars somehow. Remember I told you there was a man of some power, whom I feared had been intent on killing a Tartar. Someone whose name it was better you didn't know. It was de Ewelme I feared had done something stupid, with the involvement of a student called Miles Bikerdyke – a good archer, I was told.’ He looked hard at the bow-carrying youth. ‘It seems I gave the chancellor too much credit. His wasn't a devious plan to kill Chimbai, but simply to stir up our little wasps' nest, and cause a few painful bites.’
‘And some of the wasps will get swatted while they are about it.’
Bullock, who counted the student mob at no more than half a hundred, still didn't doubt that the handful of battle-hardened Tartar soldiers would be more than a match for them. Most of the students were aroused by drink, no doubt, and would flee at the first sign of a violent and co-ordinated response to their disorganized protest. But he was worried about the handful of lethal weapons in the students' midst. An inexpertly flighted arrow from a drunken student could still kill, and carnage would then follow. He grabbed Falconer by the arm.
‘You go and see if you can deal with the priest. I'll sort these fools out.’
By now the students were on top of the two men, buffeting them as they marched past. Falconer and Bullock stood as if bracing themselves against the pull of a swiftly flowing stream. Falconer could see the nervous look in some of the youths' eyes as they passed, and nodded in response to Bullock's suggestion. If any one man could stop them in their tracks, it was the constable, who was already sizing up who were the ringleaders. First, he would deal with them swiftly and harshly, and then the others would melt away. He hoped.
Falconer wished him luck. ‘At least we can strike de Ewelme from our list of suspects for the noyan's murder. This rabble is clearly all he can effectively organize.’
He patted the old man on his bowed back, and pushed his way through the stragglers. Bullock followed his passage for a moment, then spat on his hands and rubbed them together. Loosening his trusty sword in its scabbard, he lumbered after the student ringleaders, a gleam in his watery eyes. Forget murder and all its convolutions, this was work he could relish.
The House of Converts had been placed provocatively by the king in the centre of the area known as Jewry, with Jews' homes ranged on either side, and facing it across Fish Street. Indeed the house, situated close to Carfax, had once belonged to Joseph, son of Isaac, who had converted and taken the name of Alberic Convers. It was of some consolation to the Jews who lived in its proximity that the house, in comparison to their own, was shabby and run down, being so very little used. Old Jehozadok, the unofficial patriarch of the Oxford Jews, lived close by at the synagogue, only a few doors away. He deeply regretted ignoring the needs of Bellasez when his daughter, Saphira, had died. They had played together as children in Spain before their respective families had sought the relative security of England. Once settled in Oxford, he and Bellasez had drifted apart, as the latter pursued his father's profession of usury, and became more and more cantankerous and argumentative, and Jehozadok adopted the mantle of rabbi. They had argued bitterly when Jehozadok had attempted to come to Bellasez's aid on Saphira's first falling ill of the fever. Bellasez had asserted his independence then, and the result was that Jehozadok had stayed away when the old man had needed him most. When Saphira died, it had been a source of scandal in the introspective community that Bellasez had thrown himself upon the mercies of the Christians and moved into the Domus.
Now that Jehozadok had heard that the Dominican who ran the Domus had been killed, he feared for Bellasez, and was determined to help the old man, whether he liked it or not. He smiled at his own charact
erization of Bellasez as ‘the old man' – their ages, after all, were exactly the same. But even as a child, the scrawny Bellasez had seemed old before his time, thin and solemn in appearance. He had simply spent the last half century growing into the role he now occupied.
Leaning heavily on the stout stick that served both as a support and as a weapon, should he be accosted, Jehozadok made his wary way along the rubbish-strewn street towards the Domus. He would not have normally ventured out at such a time, preferring the security of his stone-built home, and its firm, oak front door. But the news of the death of the Dominican had only just been brought to him, and he didn't want to delay a second time over bringing succour to Bellasez. He did wish that he had summoned someone younger to assist him, though. His sight was not all it should be, and he was afraid of tripping and breaking his brittle old bones. Still, it was not far to go, and then he would be able to rescue Bellasez – from himself.
He was just crossing the end of Jewry Lane, a dark, narrow passage running off Fish Street, which cut the eastern part of Jewry in two, when a dark figure appeared out of the gloom. The tall and intimidating person almost knocked him off his feet as he brushed past, and turned down the passage without speaking. Jehozadok stumbled, and only kept on his feet by thrusting his stick out in front of him. He stood in this awkward posture for a while, breathing deeply, his heart thumping. He was unable to recover his balance properly at first. Had it been a deliberate attack, or had it been an accident that the man had not felt it necessary to apologize for? He certainly had had no sight of the man's face, which had been hooded.
Eventually his legs stopped trembling and his heart ceased pounding. Then he pushed himself upright, and continued on his uncertain way, hurrying as fast as his shaky legs would take him. He was relieved when at last he saw the door of the Domus, and dragged himself up the worn, broken steps. He went to knock at the door, and it was only then that he realized it was ajar. He cautiously pushed on the handle, and the door swung back ominously. No one in Jewry – even a convert – would leave his door unbarred at this late hour. Many an incautious Jew had received a thrashing for having the temerity to live in England and keep his door unbarred. Jehozadok's heart started pounding again. He clenched his stick as firmly as his gnarled hands would allow, and stepped into the darkness beyond the door, calling out fearfully as he went: