by Ian Morson
After attending Oxford University, Ian Morson spent thirty years working as a librarian in the London area, dealing in other writers' novels. He finally decided he had to prove he could do better, and William Falconer grew out of that decision. The medieval detective has appeared in eight novels to date, and several short stories in anthologies written by the Medieval Murderers, a group of historical crime writers. Ian also writes novels and short stories featuring Nick Zuliani, a Venetian at the court of Kubilai Khan, and Joe Malinferno and Doll Pocket, a pair living off their wits in Georgian England. Ian lives with his wife, Lynda, and divides his time between England and Cyprus.
Master William Falconer Mysteries
Falconer's Crusade
Falconer's Judgement
Falconer and the Face of God
A Psalm for Falconer
Falconer and the Great Beast
Falconer and the Ritual of Death
Falconer's Trial
Falconer and the Death of Kings
Ian Morson
Falconer
and the
Face of God
Ostara Publishing
First published in Great Britain 1996 Copyright © Ian Morson 1996
The right of Ian Morson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom
ISBN 9781906288648
Ostara Publishing
13 King Coel Road
Colchester
CO3 9AG
www.ostarapublishing.co.uk
To
Elizabeth Peters
Scholar, scribe and friend
Fellow toiler in the scriptorium of history
Acknowledgement
The verses at the beginning of each chapter are taken from a modern English adaptation of the Chester Mystery Plays by Maurice Hussey, published by William Heinemann in 1957.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter Ome
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Prologue
Abraham and Isaac strode up to the hill that stood before them. The old man's words to his son belied what was in his heart - the sacrifice of the youth.
‘Now, Isaac my son, wend we our way To yonder mountain, if that we may.’
They stood at the foot of the flat green bank, which appeared to be no more than a crudely daubed shape on a cloth that flapped idly in the threatening wind. There was a storm in the air, and Isaac sensed something wrong.
'there, 'tis on the ground at last
But father why are you downcast?
Is there something that you dread?
Father, as it is your will,
Where is the beast that we shall kill?’
Abraham seemed to stumble over his next words, and repeated what he had said. His son feigned not to notice, but, glancing apprehensively at the gathering clouds over their heads, voiced his fear.
‘Father, it makes me sore afraid To see you wield a naked blade. I fear your hand may not be stayed, And you may kill your faithful child.’
Powerless to intervene, the watching throng shivered at the scene that was being played out before their eyes. They had witnessed it many times before, but the outcome always seemed in doubt each time. Would old Abraham truly slay his son? He spoke out to the heavens, which sent a chill wind to whip through his long, white locks.
‘Isaac, Isaac, I must thee kill!’
Isaac was curiously resigned.
‘Alas! Father, is that your will,
Your own child's blood to spill?’
‘Oh, my dear son,’ cried Abraham, ‘I'm sorry
To lay this burden on thee.
'tis God's commandment on me,
And his works are ever right.’
Spots of rain began to speckle the wooden boards of the cart on which Gyles de Multon stood. He decided he had better hurry through Isaac's words before the rain started in earnest and drowned them all - actors and audience alike. He prodded a surreptitious thumb at the sky - a message intended for John Peper only to see - and plunged on.
'seeing that I must needs be dead,
Of one thing I will you pray
When you do the deed today,
Use as few strokes as well you may,
When you strike off my head.’
John Peper, in the role of Abraham, led Gyles over to the chest that normally held small items they used on stage, now serving as the sacrificial altar. He glanced nervously over to the side of the staging where the Archangel lay in waiting. The wind whipped the side-cloth across the entrance and he could see nothing. He pressed on.
'to do this deed I am most sorry
And Lord to thee I cry,
On his soul please have mercy,
For it has always been true.’
Gyles lay back, the spots of rain now hitting his face.
‘O father, father, why do you tarry so?
Smite off my head and let me go.
I pray you rid me of my woe,
And now I take my leave of you.’
John Peper raised the heavy sword over his head, above the exposed neck of Gyles de Multon. God's 'sacrifice’ gave him an exaggerated wink, not visible to the crowd below the tableau. Peper stifled a guffaw at his comrade's unseemly act and brought the blunt but lethal weapon down in a sweeping arc, confident that it would be stopped before it did any harm. But the expected intervention did not occur, and John Peper blanched as the blade cut deep into the flesh of his friend. He wrenched the weapon away to reveal a gaping wound in the soft white skin at Gyles's neck, which soon pulsed scarlet with his life's blood. A stifled gasp escaped Peper's lips, and he staggered back, dropping the bloody sword with a clatter at his feet.
The cheers from the crowd were strangled when a fountain of blood spouted from Isaac's neck. Everyone in the audience had seen the tableau before and knew the story line by line. This was not supposed to happen. Those at the front of the press pushed backwards in horror as gouts of blood splashed over their clothes. They had come in holiday mood, dressed in their finest gowns, which were now being ruined. On the wagon, which was decked out as a hillside in the Holy Land, Gyles de Multon clutched at the gaping wound in his neck, rolled off the crudely built altar and staggered the few steps to the edge of the platform. His lips moved but no sound came from them as, uncomprehending, he fell at the feet of the retreating mob. His eyes turned up to heaven in astonishment before they clouded over for ever. At that very moment a flash of lightning rent the clouds and the skies opened, the rain washing the rivers of blood from the stage.
Chapter One
GOD: I am Alpha and Omega,
Foremost and noblest.
Being my will it should be so,
It is, it was, and shall be thus.
The Fall of Lucifer
The priory church of St Frideswide was full of townsfolk. Sweat ran off expectant faces, well-wrapped bodies were pressed close against each other. Still, it was fortunate that brewer was crammed shoulder to shoulder with sk
inner's wife, and fuller's mistress with bootmaker, for it was the depths of winter and, empty, the church would have been freezing. Today, the icy cold outside was driven back by the heat of body pressed on body as everyone jostled for a better view. Even the aisle was a melee of merchants and their wives, elbowing one another aside in eager anticipation.
There was a movement near the high altar, an intonation of some Latin verse, and the crowd surged forward, impelled by those at the back. They could see little, if anything at all, and were anxious not to miss the miracle. This was an event they had waited for all year. Hadn't the King himself worshipped at the shrine of the saint only two years ago? True, the barons led by de Montfort had imprisoned the King soon after. But not for long - only last year the King had been restored to his people and de Montfort had been cut into little pieces on the battlefield. The saint had truly looked after Henry, who was now in his fiftieth year on the throne. And now their only chance at snatching a little of his luck was jeopardized by the press of others less fastidious than themselves. Some had simply forced their way to the front in a scrimmage of elbows. Those who had been pushed away grumbled about their misfortune, and wondered how the winners in the scramble could behave so grossly in the house of God.
There was a gasp from those at the front as the casket containing the mortal remains of St Frideswide was transferred from her shrine to the high altar.
‘What happened? Did you see?’
Those at the rear anxiously questioned those in front of them, asking if a miracle had occurred. These in their turn asked those ahead of them. The murmur of voices carried the query to the front of the close-packed crowd, and a message was returned in hushed tones by the same route. Some right at the back were still uncertain.
‘Was there a miracle?’
‘I think he said there was a vision of the saint.’
‘No, no. Someone over there said the water in the chalice truly had been turned into wine.’
They say there's a blind man who can now see.’
This last hissed comment caused a gabble of excitement around the speaker, even though this miracle was attributed to St Frideswide at least twice a year, on her feast day in October, and as now at Christmastide. The saint's own story told of the prince who sought to overcome her vow of virginity and was struck blind in punishment. His sight was restored by the saint when he renounced his evil plan. Now the blind made pilgrimages to her church, in the hope of being able to see once again. And it did happen - everyone knew of a blind man whose sight had been restored. Though no one could ever name him, or point such a one out if asked.
Right at the back of the press of the good townsfolk of Oxford stood Edward Petysance, priest of St Aldate's Church. He skulked sourly behind the last pillar in the powerful row that tied the flying arches of the roof to humble earth. Although the massive door of the south-west entrance was closed against the weather, an icy draught whistled through the gaps in the door's imperfect fit. It cut through Petysance's thick woollen robe like a shaft of cold steel, and move as he might he could not avoid the edge of its searching blade. He shivered, and angrily pushed against the bodies around him, but to no avail. The sharp elbow of a scrawny harridan was thrust into his soft belly, and she gave him a fleeting glance of toothless ire before she returned to peering over the heads in front of her.
Petysance gave up, and lifting the heavy latch slipped out through the door, leaving it open as a lesson in tolerance to the ugly woman whose elbow had all but pierced his gut. The frozen ridges of mud crackled under his feet as he made his way back across the courtyard, and into Fish Street and his spartan quarters in the shadow of St Aldate's Church. The weakened sun, which had hardly taken the chill off the day in its lugubrious crawl across the sky, was already dipping below the line of the new city walls. With Christmas fast approaching, other citizens of Oxford were preparing themselves for the celebrations that would mark a turn in the winter's icy grip. But Petysance was in no mood for jollification.
He was consumed with jealousy for the Prior of St Frideswide, whose life was made so comfortable because of his ownership of a set of bones. Kings, clerics and commoners flocked to the Prior's church to worship in the presence of the saint's holy relics, while at St Aldate's he struggled with increasing difficulty to maintain the fabric of God's building entrusted to his care. And did the Prior have such problems? Indeed no - with bursting coffers, he squandered coin on bigger buildings. It was but ten years since the Prior had crowned his edifice with a new bell-lantern and spire. A taunting pinnacle that Petysance could not avoid seeing every time he looked through the east window of his church.
He slammed the door on the unfair world outside his chilly rooms, and leaned back against it groaning in frustration. If only he possessed a similar attraction for the pilgrim - a relic of some sort was all he required. A vial of Christ's blood, a single saintly limb, a finger-bone even, and he would be satisfied. But he had nothing.
John Peper's hand shook as he poured the water, stained red with paint, into the glass vial on the bench. The liquid splashed across the rough wooden surface, and the pitcher slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor of the wagon. The counterfeit blood dribbled through the gaps in the planking, but all John could see was the face of his friend Gyles staring up at him in incomprehension. He gasped and held his trembling palms out in front of him. They were red with Gyles's blood. A woman's plain but friendly face was thrust through the gap in the curtain that enclosed the wagon's interior. Seeing the state that John was in, and guessing the cause, she stepped through the heavy arras. Clasping his hands in her own chapped but gentle palms, she tried to console him as she had frequently done over the last few weeks.
‘Agnes, I saw his face again. Why does he hate me so?’
The peasant woman's voice was surprisingly soft.
‘Gyles doesn't hate you. It was not your fault.’
'then why does he haunt me so?’
Peper's query came out as a high-pitched squeal, like a hare caught in a snare. Agnes wiped away the tears and snot that ran down his contorted face. Her voice hardened in anger as she comforted him.
‘It's not you Gyles should be haunting, it's Stefano. It was his fault, after all. He insisted you use a real blade - we'd always used a wooden one before. And he should have stopped the blade - he was the Angel Gabriel for that performance, wasn't he? If anyone should be blamed for Gyles's death it's Stefano.’
A harsh and vengeful look crept over her homely features and she squeezed John's arm tight. For a moment it frightened him, then the look was gone. Snivelling, John Peper turned back to the bench at which he had been working, and started mopping up the spilt liquid with an old rag that at one time had been the Archangel's robe. Agnes squatted down and began to pick up the shattered pieces of the pitcher from the floor.
‘He shouldn't have made you do this, anyway - filling bottles with coloured water so he can sell them as holy blood to the fools who come to see us. Can't he see you're still upset?’
She looked up at Peper's broad back, which shuddered as another convulsion of misery enveloped him, amd mumbled to herself, ‘And we all know where he was instead of being set to come on stage.’
Stefano de Askeles was at that very moment planning where he should take his troupe of jongleurs next. The purses of those who frequented the inns of Abingdon had proved tighter than he had hoped. Perhaps the tale of their little bit of bad luck in Winchester had followed them here already. When they had first arrived, Simon Godrich's lascivious songs had gone down well in the taverns. And Margaret's tumbling had most of the men agog. Dressed in men's breeches, her lithe figure as it sprung, rolled and contorted left little to her audience's imagination. Which was just as well, as few of the stupid labourers who filled the hat with coins had any imagination to exercise. Of all the women saltatores de Askeles had seen in his life, Margaret Peper was the most supple and graceful. She was wasted on her husband, and de Askeles only employed him to keep Margare
t in his troupe of players. And her body was not only pliant on stage or in the taverns. De Askeles grinned as he recalled the contortions she had performed solely for him the previous evening, while he had kept her husband busy mixing the ‘holy blood’.
All their good fortune, however, seemed to have trickled away in the last few days, and it was clearly time to move on. Calculating that Christmastide would soon be upon them, he decided the time was right to make their way to Oxford. The monks or the merchant guilds there would be mounting the annual mystery plays, and could easily be persuaded to use his troupe's professional skills. And the carefree nature of the students always guaranteed loose purse-strings, even amongst such a normally impecunious mob. He would arrange for a message to be sent to the Prior of St Frideswide and the leaders of the guilds to alert them to his arrival. There was nothing like a little anticipation to raise people's level of eagerness for entertainment. Yes, Oxford at Christmas it would be - why, the King might even be there. Then the money would really begin to flow.
There was an unusual state of panic in the Chancellor's residence at Oxford. The present incumbent of the office, Henry de Cicestre, was a fastidious man and preparations for the festival would normally have been well advanced, but a few days earlier de Cicestre had received a message that his elderly mother had been taken ill. In a flurry of activity, the Chancellor had got himself ready and departed for her home in Southampton. Halegod, the chief steward of de Cicestre's household and of many chancellors' before him, had therefore looked forward to a lazy Christmastide. No fussy master to run around after, no meals to supervise except his own. He had thought he might even arrange for his own feast to be charged up to the Chancellor's tally. He had mouth-watering dreams of roast curlew or woodcock with oysters, to be followed by his favourite dish of seethed figs and ale.
Then de Cantilupe had literally turned up on the doorstep. When Halegod unsuspectingly opened the door, the former Chancellor had swept in and occupied the residence as though two years and the death of Baron Simon had not happened. Halegod was back to being ordered about, and his vision of a sybaritic Christmas dissipated. Grumbling, he set about lighting the fire as Thomas de Cantilupe settled in what had been his favourite chair before leaving Oxford. In the intervening two years he had effectively sided with Simon de Montfort in his struggle with Henry III, and for a short time had been rewarded with the Chancellorship of England. Unfortunately, Baron Simon's ascendancy had been brief, and within a year Thomas had found himself on the wrong side. Luckily he had always retained a good relationship with Prince Edward, Henry's son, and had not been dispossessed as many of the rebel barons had been. Now he had heard that the King was to spend his Christmas in Oxford, and planned to ingratiate himself back into the favour of the victor of the Barons' Wars.