by Ian Morson
That was why the events of the other night kept turning over in his mind. Oh, he saw lots of things from his vantage point overlooking the road out of East Gate, where he spent every night. It was surprising how many people conducted secret assignations on that road when they should be securely locked up inside the city. He had seen friars of all orders meeting women. And recently he had seen someone from the city meeting a ferocious-looking wild man, who must have been from one of those robber bands Saphira said plagued the countryside. He'd seen the same townsman the other day working on the stage for the play-actors, and discovered his name was Ralph. Not that he would be telling anyone what he saw - Jews kept their mouths shut in England if they knew what was good for them. Or so his father had said when he was small. He still wondered what had happened to his father, who had disappeared just before the family moved from their home in Lincoln and came to Oxford.
Once through East Gate it was his habit to turn left down the narrow alley that ran immediately inside the walls - too many people made fun of him if he went down the main street. On this occasion someone behind him turned into the alley too, and he quickened his pace instinctively, thoughts of robbers still on his mind.
But neither could he shake off the vivid memory of the scene that had presented itself the other night. Hearing an unfamiliar sound, he had looked out of his sentry-box and seen, only a few paces away, someone digging in the ground. The door to his hut squeaked as he swung it further open and the figure lifted its face towards him. The shock of recognition had stunned him. He was churning the moment over in his mind again, and failed to hear the slap of running feet behind him. It was only when an excruciating pain lanced through his head that he half turned to see the pale, contorted features that loomed over him. His pursuer raised his weapon again and brought it down once more on Solomon's already shattered head. The Jew fell in a heap in the darkest corner of the alley, his open, unseeing eyes staring at the weapon his assailant had dropped to the ground. It was the curiously carved stone that should have been securing his hut.
Chapter Nine
GOD: Say, what array do I find here?
Who is your prince and principal?
I made thee, O Angel Lucifer,
And here thou wouldst be lord over all!
The Fall of Lucifer
For Peter Bullock the day was not progressing well. His examination of Agnes Cheke had revealed that she had been on her own when the murder occurred, cleaning some of the costumes, so no one could vouch for her not being the killer. It also uncovered in her another person who hated de Askeles. She had been quite frank about it to the constable, her plain face set like stone.
‘Did I kill the monk? That's for you to find out. Did I wish Stefano dead? Of course. He just does not give up, you see. Using and abusing people.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, I know I am not the prettiest woman on this earth. But I do not need reminding of it day in and day out.’
'then why do you stay with the troupe?’
The woman's plain face creased in a sad smile. Why, because she had never earned so much as she did now. She had done so many jobs in her life she could not remember them all. Seamstress, cook, housekeeper, she had tried them all. She had been a very plain girl, who had grown into an even plainer woman. That of itself was no problem for her - she knew she had all the skills required of a good wife. The trouble had been finding a good husband. The man she had married, a miller by trade, had expected her to tolerate his violent moods simply because she was not fair of face.
‘If you leave me, who will have you?’
That was his regular taunt, for he little knew that she did not care if anyone else would have her. One day, drunk, he made to hit her and she swung the iron pot she held at his head. The blow connected and he fell like a sack. Not caring if he was alive or dead, she took him at his word, and left with only a bundle of clothes. She had never felt so happy as she did that day. With nothing to sustain her other than her own resources, she soon discovered hard work was not difficult to find. And a washer of clothes, a cook or a seamstress she might have stayed, until one day she jestingly used the little knowledge of palmistry she had learned from her grandmother on the hand of a woman she worked with. Soon other women were coming to her to have their futures explained. She immediately gave up her exhausting labour, and made her living by using her growing skills in palmistry to tell people what they wanted to hear - or what she thought they ought to hear. De Askeles had come across her at a country fair near Canterbury and recruited her for his growing band of troubadours, which was already gaining itself a reputation - though sometimes she wondered if her skills as a seamstress had attracted him more than her palmistry. But yes, money was why she tolerated de Askeles.
'stefano is good at finding the full and open purse. And anyway, Will needs me to protect him. Without me, he would do something silly.’
'silly? What do you mean - can't he control his temper?’
Agnes realized she had said too much. ‘Did you know I read palms? Shall I read yours?’ She took one of Bullock's calloused fists in her hands, and gently opened the fingers.
'the left hand is best because it is less marked with cuts and creases from great use. See this line here?’ She drew a finger across his palm to the calloused pad on its edge. 'that is your line of life - but don't be fearful. It is a long one.’
Bullock snorted. 'that's not too difficult to tell. Some would say I was well advanced in years already.’
Agnes ignored him, and continued tracing the lines on his palm with her finger. She frowned and spoke in a serious tone. ‘I must tell you that the midward line here ...’ she pointed at a crease that ended between his third and fourth fingers ’... betokens death from a sword wound.’
'thank God for that. At least I shall not die in my bed in piping old age, rendered blind and deaf.’ Bullock guffawed, and tried to pull his hand from Agnes's grasp. Before he could do so, she held his little finger and peered at the creases on it.
'this tells you how many wives you will have.’
'that I certainly do not wish to know.’ He clenched his fist, and turned from Agnes in embarrassment. ‘Where might I find Margaret Peper?’
‘With her husband. Where else? Now I must go and make the wagon ready for use as our dressing room.’
Agnes's face was hard and impenetrable. She abruptly walked away from the constable, and went to the wagon into which Will Plome had disappeared. It was a moment before Bullock realized that she had avoided explaining her statement about the halfwit. He sighed, and decided he would have to ask again at a later date, if it became necessary. He did not want to risk annoying Agnes - he thought that might be like holding a sword aloft in a lightning storm. In any event, he was still convinced that John Peper was his prey, and a talk with Margaret Peper could settle the matter once and for all.
Petysance had quickly fashioned a much more opulent box for the arm of St Eldad than the battered one de Askeles had transported it in. The arm now lay on padded velvet inside an ash casket that was bound in brass at the corners. Perhaps when the revenue from pilgrims started rolling in he could bind the box in silver like the one which held the bones of St Frideswide. No - if hers were encased in silver, then the arm must be bound in gold. But that was for the future. Now, he could not wait a moment longer, and he proceeded to spread the news of his holy relic by the most reliable method possible. He told John Cope, the old fishmonger whose stall was hard by the walls of St Aldate's Church, that he now possessed a holy relic which had already proved its powers by turning water into wine. He did not reveal the apparition of the Virgin, saving that for later. He need not have bothered, for the miracles multiplied anyway as the story was spread. Every person who bought from the fishmonger's stall was told about the miraculous arm of St Eldad, and every purchaser of fish told the next person he met in his travels, be he stallholder or neighbour. Suddenly the market was buzzing with talk about how the relic had converted w
ater into wine, made the blind to see, and finally raised the dead. It was surely destined to be a greater curer of the sick than even St Frideswide's remains.
Crowds began to gather at the door of the church, jostling each other to be at the front when the relic was produced. But Edward Petysance had no intention of wasting the drama of the occasion by simply lifting the bones in front of such an impromptu rabble. He slipped out through the church door, and closed it firmly behind him. For a while the crowd grew noisier, demanding to see the holy arm, until at last he raised his hands above his head. Gradually silence descended, and he explained what he planned to do.
‘I shall carry the relic of St Eldad at the head of the procession which will precede the start of the play cycle in two days' time. Then and only then will you be able to see its miraculous powers.’
The crowd roared its approval, and so missed Petysance's quiet comment of satisfaction to himself.
‘And it will all be played out right on St Frideswide's doorstep.’
As the excited crowd dispersed and the priest returned to gloat over his prize, Stefano de Askeles ambled through the market on his way to the temporary stage in front of the priory church. Beside him was Margaret Peper, dressed now in the modest robes of her sex, which still did not fully conceal the lithesome nature of her step. Behind the two walked a sullen John Peper, staring at de Askeles's broad back and clearly wishing that the chisel had been embedded in it last night, and not in error in the monk. De Askeles laughed as he heard the chatter around him about the appearance of St Eldad's arm. He cast a knowing glance over his shoulder at Peper.
‘It reminds me of the time the Archbishop brought the bones of St Martin to Abingdon. They had already been working miracles up and down the country. A cripple got to hear of it, and told his friend the blind man that the miraculous bones were arriving. The cripple climbed on his friend's shoulders and urged him away.
’“Why are we going this way?” said the blind man. “Isn't the Archbishop coming in the other direction?”
’“Exactly,” said the cripple. "We earn far too much money from begging to risk being cured. Let's get away as fast as we can!"’
De Askeles roared with laughter, and Margaret's gentler peals joined in. John Peper was clearly not amused, and when de Askeles put his hand intimately on the back of Margaret's neck he stormed off into the crowd. Margaret sighed and made to follow him, but de Askeles grabbed her arm.
‘Leave him. He'll cool down - we've got more rehearsing to do. It looks as if I'll have to be God and the Devil both after all.’
Peter Bullock's suspicions about John Peper's reason for wishing to kill de Askeles were confirmed when he saw the imposing leader of the troupe enter the courtyard with Margaret Peper on his arm. They were halfway across the open yard before de Askeles saw the constable. He stopped momentarily, then painted a smile upon his face, and hailed Bullock. ‘Ah, the guardian of the law has returned. But without his nosy friend, I see. Do you want to speak to me?’
‘Actually no, it's Margaret Peper I really came to see.’
The woman looked as though she wished she could disappear, but de Askeles thrust her forward.
'very well. I have to start rehearsing the plays again anyway.’ With that, he strode off towards the front of the stage, where a knot of townsfolk and monks were gathered, nervously awaiting their instructions for the day. De Askeles called out to them as he approached. ‘Don't worry, no more murders are envisaged for today. So you can concentrate on getting your words right.’
Bullock left him to it and guided Margaret to a quiet corner of the yard. Before he could begin to ask her anything, words poured from her.
‘I didn't see anything, you know. I wasn't anywhere near the stage when it happened. And before you ask, no, I wasn't with Stefano either.’
‘Was I going to ask that?’ queried Bullock, certain that at some point he would have. At least it confirmed his suspicions about a liaison, and saved him the awkwardness of broaching the matter. Still, he wondered if he could entirely take her at her word. ‘You must think there is good reason for my asking it.’
Her face clouded. ‘Why does everyone assume that I enjoy the attention he pays me? I don't, you know.’
‘Your husband clearly thinks you do,’ remarked Bullock.
‘John just doesn't understand that we'd both be beggars on the street if I didn't keep Stefano happy. He only keeps John on because of me - John's not the best actor in the kingdom, after all.’
Bullock continued his blunt line of questioning, though it had not exactly had good results with the others. He was beginning to realize how difficult it was to emulate William Falconer.
'so what were you doing when the murder took place?’
‘I'd just watched John play his part - he liked me to do that.’
‘What part was it?’
‘Noah.’
Bullock paused, then said, ‘Go on.’
'then I went down the lane a little to get away from the hangers- on. I need to keep supple, so I do exercises every night and didn't want some idiot gawking at me.’
The constable drove the image of Margaret somersaulting down Fish Street from his mind, and asked her to continue.
'that's it. I came straight back when I heard the commotion start, and the rest you know.’
Bullock felt frustrated. Why was it none of the troupe could vouch for the whereabouts of any other? Apart from those on the stage, every one of them seemed to have been on their own. He only had John Peper left to question. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘You say John was playing the part of Noah?’
Margaret nodded.
‘I've seen that play performed before. Do you follow the usual practice and build the ark on stage?’
‘Yes, Stefano insists that we do it properly - it's quite a spectacle.’
'so Noah would be carrying carpenter's tools? Including chisels?’
Margaret didn't reply, but Bullock already knew the answer from the look in her eyes.
*
In Aristotle's Hall the handful of students who would remain in residence for the Christmas festivities were emptying their purses of all the coins they could find. It was a small, sad pile that sat on the long, battered table in the communal hall. Thomas Symon, the most senior clerk present, counted the coins again. But however many times he did so, it did not amount to enough. For several weeks Thomas and the others had been following the growth of the bristly red sow that their neighbour was fattening in the yard next to the students' hall. They had looked on with pleasure as the pig's cheeks filled out and its tiny eyes sank into the fleshy face. The students were not interested in the rotund body of the pig, but when it was slaughtered they had agreed to purchase the head. Boiled, it would provide a magnificent feast to mark Christmastide. Now it seemed they did not even have enough to buy the head.
One student, a scrawny youth with a pock-marked face, suggested they could work in the fields to earn a few marks. Thomas, a farmer's son, snorted his derision.
'stephen. There is no work on a farm at this time of year. Most animals have been slaughtered already, and if you think anything grows at this time of year you're a bigger fool than I took you for.’
The scrawny youth scowled. What did he know of the countryside? His father was a silversmith to the King and lived in Westminster. The nearest cows had been a good mile away from where he lived. Thomas's rebuke prompted him to offer another suggestion.
'then we should take our weapons and go and rob some rich traveller coming through Bagley Wood.’
‘If you think that, then you're a fool for certain.’
The regent master's sharp tones cut across the students‘ chatter. Falconer was sitting hunched over the fire in the hearth at one end of the hall, and his charges had all but forgotten he was there. Deep in thought, he had been almost ignoring their conversation until he heard Stephen foolishly suggest robbery. He turned from the warmth of the flames and glared at the youths seated round t
he scratched and battered table.
'the King has just arrested twenty townsfolk for merely being suspected of involvement with a robber band. They are to be hanged after Christmas. So don't suggest robbery even in jest.’
The youths were shocked into silence - they had not heard their master speak so harshly before - and sat staring at the forlorn heap of coins on the table. Falconer regretted his outburst, but thought it best not to soften his words - Stephen Cosyn was stupid and impetuous enough to carry out his ill-conceived ideas if not firmly stopped. He returned to tossing plans around in his own head. He had to find a way to save at least Zerach de Alemmania from the noose, if not the other townspeople. He had been surprised to hear from another master of the unscientific way that the supposedly guilty men had been identified. It offended all his tenets of good deduction, based on Aristotelian logic. Successful solution of crime depended on careful comparison of known truths, from which a greater truth could be inferred. Hadn't he used this method himself to solve several murders in Oxford? That the King could be so easily beguiled into believing the words of known rivals of the supposed malefactors annoyed Falconer, particularly as a former Chancellor of the university had been instrumental in collecting the so-called ‘facts’.
His informant had referred to de Cantilupe's role in providing the King with the culprits, and it had been the first Falconer knew of the ex-Chancellor's presence in Oxford. In his time at the university, the man had been a worthy adversary of Falconer's, challenging the regent master's role in murder investigations. Curiously, Falconer respected him for his clear thinking, which made it all the more irksome that he should be involved in Zerach's arrest. He had thought of approaching de Cantilupe to help him convince the King of the citizens' innocence, but knew it was useless. De Cantilupe was obviously prepared to sacrifice them for his own ends, and was unlikely to change his mind for the sake of a regent master who had been a thorn in his side in the past.