Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  Bullock glanced around the room. ‘I can see you have been preoccupied.’ He was familiar with the impedimenta that normally surrounded Falconer, but usually it was arranged in some semblance of order. Now, everything was higgledy-piggledy. Some of Falconer's precious jars of herbs and aromatics lay on their sides, some unsealed, giving the room a cloying, heady scent. Books lay scattered across the table, most of them opened, the pages held down with whatever had come to the regent master's hand at the time. In some cases it was a rock, sheared off to reveal a strange pattern, in others a glass jar with something grey and unspeakable in it. In the centre of the table an animal skull, probably that of a deer, stared eyelessly at Bullock. Falconer saw Bullock's anxious gaze.

  ‘Don't worry. I am not ill, nor am I mad. I am ... was in the middle of trying to put down on paper some of the science I have learned over the years since Roger Bacon left us. I never thought to see him again, and had resolved to record what I learned from him, and what I have deduced since. And as soon as I begin, he puts in an appearance.’

  ‘He's back? Where is he, then?’

  Bullock knew of Falconer's reverence for the strange, self- opinionated Franciscan, and didn't know he had returned to Oxford.

  ‘Oh, he's not here in person. That would be too simple. No, he's sent a message which is as cryptic as his thoughts on the flying machine, and I am to work out this message and be his errand-boy.’ He grimaced. ‘I don't know if I have time even to solve the mystery of the Devil's death.’

  A triumphant smile crossed Bullock's leathery face. 'that's fine. You see, I've solved it myself already.’

  Margaret Peper was cleaning the Devil's robe, trying to wash off the blood that marred the back panel of the rich cloth before she stitched up the jagged tear. She was huddled down between the wheels of the wagon in an attempt to keep out of de Askeles's way, while he ranted and raved at all who had the misfortune to cross his path. The setback of the monk's death - for that was how he viewed it - was just another irritant in his preparations for the plays cycle. He was always annoyed by having to deal with amateurs, and now those very people were showing a marked reluctance to attend another rehearsal for fear of another tragedy. Even Margaret's own comrades in the troupe were a sullen bunch this morning, each suspicious of the other. Perhaps they were simply angry that the murderer had bungled it, and failed to despatch the man who ruled their lives and browbeat them all. They all had cause to hate de Askeles - herself, John, Will because of the monkey, and even Agnes for his endless mocking remarks about her plainness.

  She shivered as she recalled the piercing gaze of that regent master who had questioned them all the previous evening. His blue-eyed stare had seemed to penetrate to her very soul, and she had felt like confessing. He must surely know by now who was responsible. She busied herself with a swift and neat stitch, repairing the damage to the robe, and tried to put Falconer's eyes out of her mind. Above her she could hear someone moving around in the bed of the wagon, shifting heavy properties. She heard a crash followed by a curse - it was the voice of Stefano. He had obviously let something drop and hurt himself. Just as the noise of moving furniture began again, she felt the wagon sway as someone else climbed in at the rear. The muffled voices piqued her curiosity, especially when she heard de Askeles snarl some warning at the newcomer. She got to her feet and cautiously put her eye to an open seam in the canvas side of the wagon. Through the rent in the covering, she could just discern Stefano. But when the other person spoke she realized it was her husband, and he was frightened.

  ‘I must tell them about it, or I will be accused anyway.’

  'there is no need to tell them. They haven't the first idea who stabbed the monk, and they won't be able to work it out, because nobody saw anything. In a few days everyone will be too drunk to care, and it will all be forgotten.’

  ‘But we were seen.’

  'that I can resolve.’

  De Askeles's voice was firm, but still Peper clutched at his sleeve and begged him. ‘I am afraid. They will hang me.’

  De Askeles snarled and wrenched his captive arm free of the other man's grasp. He thrust his angry face at Peper, the veins throbbing on his temples.

  ‘Whatever you tell them will implicate you. So you'd better keep your mouth shut, for your own good.’

  He swung round and stormed out of the wagon, leaping the gap from the tailboard on to the wooden staging where the play cycle would come to life. Margaret shrank back between the wheels of the wagon to avoid being seen. And above her John gave vent to his mixed fear and anger by pitching God's throne out of the back of the wagon and on to the stage, where it landed with a thump.

  Edward Petysance was consumed with excitement. The man had vowed to him that he knew where the remains of the saint were, and had promised to deliver them today. With a holy relic to rival that of St Frideswide, he could expect a lucrative income from pilgrims. And he could rub the superior Prior's face in the dirt when everyone abandoned his shrine for that of St Aldate. The troubadour had insisted that Petysance meet him in the church precisely at sext, and the priest now hurried impatiently from his nearby lodgings to St Aldate's. Entering through the church's south door, he was struck by the gloom in the main body of the nave. He cursed the lazy servitor who had obviously not lit the candles this morning. Hurrying up the aisle, he was aware of an imposing presence before the altar. He stopped and shielded his eyes from the light that filtered in through the stained-glass window above the altar. The man stood for a moment with the light turning his golden locks into a halo, then he strode down the steps to meet the priest. It was the troubadour, de Askeles.

  ‘Father. I have good news.’

  Petysance could not contain himself and clutched at the other's robe. ‘You were able to obtain the saint's relics.’

  De Askeles's face was solemn, his eyes pools of sorrow. ‘Alas, I do not have the whole skeleton.’

  The priest's face fell, his vision of a lucrative future shattered. But de Askeles smiled.

  ‘But I do possess the saint's arm and hand. The very hand that blessed those who reverenced him while he lived. Come - I will show you.’

  He put his arm over the priest's shoulders and led him towards the altar.

  ‘Just think - more than seven hundred years since the sainted bishop's death and here lies his arm. You were lucky that we had travelled through Deorham earlier this year, and that the local prelate was prepared to part with such a rarity. Of course, if it were not for my ancestry .’

  Petysance had heard a rumour that this jongleur was the bastard son of a cardinal, perhaps even of a pope. He certainly knew about St Eldad and the town where he had been killed. Even if the first were just rumour, the last was enough to convince him. He looked eagerly over the jongleur's shoulder. On the altar lay a long, narrow wooden box the length of a man's arm. The box was old and battered, and next to it stood a pewter pitcher and two goblets. A shaft of light from the window fell on the wood, and with trembling fingers Petysance lifted the lid. A dank, soily smell rose from the interior, but this did not deter the priest. There, on a bed of purple cloth, lay the arm-bones of a man, with the array of hand- and finger-bones wired to the end of the forearm so they splayed out as they had when covered in flesh. There was even a dull, gold ring with a green stone embedded in it on one of the fingers. The blessed hand of St Eldad. The priest's eyes sparkled with reverence and joy, and the jongleur smiled.

  ‘I thought we might celebrate the occasion with a drink. Of course I only have water.’

  De Askeles picked up the pewter jug and poured some water into the nearest goblet. The crystal clear liquid sparkled in the light. Then he handed the empty goblet to Petysance, and leaned over to fill it, passing the jug over the box on the altar. To the priest's amazement the liquid that poured forth had the ruby-red glow of a good Guienne wine.

  ‘L-look,’ he stammered, thrusting the goblet at de Askeles. As the troubadour tried to take it from his nerveless fingers, it fell b
etween them, splashing a red stain over the grey stone surface of the altar. The sound of the goblet falling to the floor echoed through the gloomy church. De Askeles stood transfixed, staring first at the stain, then at the jug in his hand. He gently put the jug down, and stared at the shabby, grey bones lying in the box. He did not have to prompt the priest, who was also transfixed by the saintly bones.

  ‘I have heard it said that Archbishop Sewal of York turned water into wine just before his death a few years ago. I would not have believed it could happen, if I had not just seen it with my own eyes.’

  Just as de Askeles was about to reply, there came a strange ethereal sound from the depths of the church. An icy chill ran down Edward Petysance's back, and he hardly dared look up from the altar. De Askeles's eyes were already huge and rounded as he stared over the priest's shoulder. The reedy noise continued and Petysance slowly forced his gaze in that direction. The sound came from the gloom at the other end of the central aisle, where sat the heavy, bound chest holding the valuables of the church. As though from inside the chest, a slender figure arose and seemed to hover in the air. Though in darkness; the serene, pale face glowed with an inner beauty, and the priest had no doubt what the apparition was.

  'the Virgin.’

  He fell to his knees and clutched his hands together in prayer, his eyes tightly closed. Suddenly the strange noise stopped and Petysance opened his eyes again. The vision was gone. He staggered to his feet, and in a moment of doubt plunged down the aisle to where the figure had stood. Apart from the chest, there was nowhere a fully grown person could hide, and the chest was securely locked, with the only key at his waist. As de Askeles approached him, his whole body shook. The saint's arm was truly a powerful relic.

  De Askeles cleared his throat nervously. ‘About my payment…’

  Bullock was now in full flight, waving the half-empty flagon of ale, with which Falconer had provided him, carelessly around the room as he explained his idea. Falconer nervously edged him away from the table where all his most precious books lay open. He dreaded the texts being smeared with splashes of ale. Oblivious of his friend's concerns, Peter Bullock made his case as clearly as he could - he knew Falconer would find the smallest loophole if it existed. He had spoken to all the townspeople present, from guildsmen who had volunteered to act in the plays to the onlookers who remained; indeed anyone he could find who had been in the yard at any point during the rehearsals.

  ‘I even spoke to old Solomon, the Jew, who had been there before he went to work. Though why I bothered I know not. Someone more unlike his namesake you would be hard pressed to find. The poor unfortunate is no wiser than a new-born child.’

  To Bullock it was clear nobody knew of a reason why anyone should seek to kill Brother Adam. Similarly there was little evidence of a cause to do away with de Askeles, among the townsfolk at least. After all, he had only been in Oxford a few days.

  ‘However, I do know of someone in his own troupe who hates him. I saw him outside the tavern where de Askeles and some of his band were entertaining the first night they arrived. He was full of anger, and was spying on de Askeles. When the troubadours came out of the tavern, he hid himself and watched as de Askeles pawed at that pretty saltatore. I have since learned she is his wife. His name is John Peper, and he has motive enough to wish his leader dead. So when you suggested de Askeles had been the intended victim, I started thinking.’

  Falconer was unconvinced. ‘Did you discover who the chisel belonged to?’

  This brought a frown to Bullock's wrinkled face. He had not thought to find that out, and immediately regretted not doing so.

  ‘Well, no. But the fact that the chisel belonged to someone does not mean he was the murderer. Perhaps he is just careless with his tools. Anyone could have stolen it - the site was very busy throughout the day, after all.’

  ‘Have you determined where the rest of the troupe were when the murder occurred? The killer obviously could not have been Robert Kemp or Simon Godrich - they were on stage in full view of the audience at the crucial moment. And I would rule out de Askeles, as we believe he was the intended victim. That leaves Will Plome, John Peper, and the two women - Margaret Peper and Agnes Cheke.’

  ‘You cannot think it was one of the women! Did you not say the shadow you saw wore breeches, not a long robe or skirt?’

  ‘And how was the saltatore dressed when you saw her leaving the tavern?’

  ‘Why - as a man ...’

  Bullock realized he had answered his own question, and blushed.

  'this man has more enemies than Emperor Frederick himself! You'll be blaming it on the monkey next.’

  Falconer pondered this most seriously. ‘No. I could have been confused by the size of the shadow - small animal, large shadow - but it would not have had the strength to thrust the chisel in so deeply.’

  Bullock snorted at Falconer's apparently serious consideration of the monkey's complicity. The regent master, however, continued along the track of his thoughts, mentally marking off each possible route.

  ‘I regret now being so slipshod last night. I should have verified exactly where everyone was when I spoke to them. Even where de Askeles was returning from when he made his dramatic appearance. And I should still like to know whose chisel ended up in the Devil's back.’

  The constable heaved a sigh, and prepared himself for an interminable investigation.

  Why did he always confide in Falconer when he knew the regent master turned a simple murder into a convoluted puzzle that took weeks to unravel? He supposed it was because Falconer always turned out to have the correct answer. He expected this case to be no different, so Falconer's next statement came as something of a surprise.

  ‘But you must do what you think right. After all, you have uncovered a clue that I was unaware of through my negligence. If you say it's John Peper, then John Peper it is. I am far too busy to take it further myself, and I trust your judgement.’

  Bullock could not believe his ears - Regent Master William Falconer was passing up the opportunity to investigate a murder. And one at which he had been present at that.

  ‘Now, if you'll forgive me, I have a lot of work to do.’

  He sat down behind his table and drew a large tome towards him. As he perused the tiny writing that filled its pages, he laid his hand on a sealed letter as though divining its contents. In a moment he seemed oblivious of Bullock's presence, and, when the astonished constable left, all that was visible was the top of his grizzled head of hair. But even as Bullock closed the door quietly behind him, Falconer's voice rang out.

  ‘But don't forget to track down the carpenter.’

  Chapter Eight

  LUCIFER: I tell you all, do me reverence,

  For I am full of heavenly grace.

  If God comes back, I will not from thence,

  But sit still here before his face.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  Thomas de Cantilupe was pleased with himself - his stratagem had worked. He rose late and did not bother to dress, merely tying the heavy robe he habitually wore in the bedchamber securely at his waist. He drew his favourite chair, which he was pleased to see de Cicestre had not dispensed with, close to the embers of the previous night's fire, and called for Halegod. The servant would no longer deal with him in the offhand manner he had used since the former Chancellor's unexpected arrival. De Cantilupe was once again in the King's favour, and his brittle confidence was restored. He settled back on the smooth oaken seat of the chair, worn down by the padded behinds of several chancellors, and gripped the arms in magisterial fashion: He reviewed the events of the previous day and smiled with satisfaction.

  Returning through the hovels surrounding the King's residence in Beaumont, de Cantilupe had been growing in confidence. He led a motley group of merchants from Oxford, all of whom were prepared to swear that surprisingly highly placed officials and burghers were in collusion with the bands of robbers that infested the countryside around the town. The fact that al
l the names that were to be provided belonged to people who were business rivals of those in de Cantilupe's group, or had offended them in some way in the past, was not something that mattered to Thomas. Nor would it matter to the King - Henry was used to having provided for him evidence of whatever misdeeds he fancied had occurred. Not that he was necessarily vain - in fact he was in many ways a modest and pious man. But a king can be sheltered from reality by the sycophants that surround him, whose continued existence depends on providing whatever 'truths’ the king desires. De Cantilupe was a realist and a survivor, therefore more than familiar with this eternal fact. He would do what was necessary to ensure his own security. And salve his conscience with the thought that he was ensuring the release of the hostage burghers who had attended the King on that first day. Moreover, each of those who were being sacrificed must have committed some misdeed to be the object of the hatred of those he now accompanied.

  In the presence of the King a long list of names was read out.

  'thomas Burewald, Edmund Inge, Walter Felde, Andrew Bodin…’

  As the list progressed Henry's face grew more and more wrathful, as a sense of righteous anger imbued him. These were men whom he had trusted, and given responsible positions with great rewards. He tugged at the two forks of his long grey beard and listened in stunned silence.

  ’... John Doket, Peter Stockwell, and the Jews Cresselin and Zerach.’

  The recitation of the wrongdoers' names had ended, and Henry turned to de Cantilupe. 'thank you, Thomas. I knew you could be trusted - this will not go unrewarded.’

  De Cantilupe wriggled in his familiar chair and imagined what rewards he might extract from the King. A discreet cough brought him back to the present. Before him stood the stooped figure of Halegod, patiently awaiting his orders. It was uncanny how the man sensed the ex-Chancellor's new standing - the impatience with his presence that the servant had shown until this morning was gone. Now both understood their relative positions, and de Cantilupe was a generous master.