by Ian Morson
‘Master.’
Falconer became aware of Thomas Symon standing over him. An anxious look on his face betrayed the fact that he was nervous about disturbing Falconer's thoughts. The master forced a smile to his lips.
‘What is it, Thomas?’
‘If we are not to have our feast, we thought at least we could celebrate in style.’
‘And?’
‘We wondered if we could elect a Lord of Misrule for Christmastide.’
Despite his thoughts on this subject only recently, Falconer frowned at the idea of allowing the custom in his hall just now. He was not in the mood to allow one of his unruly students to govern the hall during the Christmas period. If Stephen Cosyn were elected, he might decree all sorts of silly actions, and Falconer and the other students would be bound by custom to observe his commands. Even bishops and kings bowed to the ancient custom and did what the poorest, most menial person elected as Lord of Misrule or boy-bishop demanded of them. He smiled to soften the refusal. Then he was suddenly animated as though struck by lightning. That was the answer, of course. Why had he not seen it before? Falconer leapt from his chair, almost throwing Thomas on his backside. His previously forced smile spread into a huge natural grin.
'thank you, Thomas. You have solved a very difficult problem.’
Thomas was bewildered. ‘I have?’
‘Yes, indeed. Now come with me. You and I are going to see Master de Cantilupe. And the rest of you - elect your Lord of Misrule. Even if it has to be Stephen Cosyn.’ The other students groaned. ‘Oh, and go and pay for that pig's head now, before anyone else buys it.’
To everyone's astonishment, the normally penurious master drew several coins from his purse and scattered them across the table. The next moment he was out of the hall with Thomas Symon in tow.
‘Oh, Lord, all honoured shalt Thou be, The earth it dries . before me, But till Thou command me From here I will not fly. When all the water's gone away, Sacrifice shall I this day . ’
The words dried on John Peper's lips. De Askeles, dressed as God in gilded robes but without his mask, strode angrily across the stage.
‘No, no, no.’ He recited Peper's lines perfectly himself. ‘When all the water's gone away, So shall I as soon as may, Sacrifice to you this day.
‘How many times have we done this play? And still you cannot recall the words.’
John Peper, dressed as Noah in a long blue robe, stammered in anger and fear at Stefano's overbearing manner.
‘I ... I know the words. It's just the last few days ...’
He left the end of his excuse unsaid, and rushed off the stage. De Askeles glared at his retreating back, and pointedly recited God's words at the end of the Noah play.
‘My blessing to you I give here,
For vengeance no more shall appear.
So fare thee well, my darling dear.’
The words stung Peper, who stripped off the blue robe at the edge of the stage and stormed down the flight of creaky steps that led to the beaten earth of the courtyard below. In a blind rage, he ran straight into the solid figure of Oxford's constable.
‘Ah, the very man I was seeking,’ murmured Peter Bullock, clutching Peper's arm in his calloused grip. At first the troubadour wriggled to free himself, but then he realized it was pointless. The constable's grip was too strong, and he could not keep avoiding him. When Peper relaxed, Bullock let him go and he subsided into a heap on the seat that stood beside him. It was God's throne on the stage, but viewed close to the gilding was inexpert and the moulding flat - a painted simulacrum. The overall effect was cheap and tawdry. A tired smile flickered across Peper's lips, as unreal as the throne he sat upon.
‘And what is it you want to know?’
‘Where you were when the monk was killed.’
Peper had known this was the question he would be asked, but still he had no answer. At least, not one that he could give the constable. There was a glimmer of fear in his eyes, and he cast a glance at de Askeles, who still strutted on the stage, reciting the whole of God's speech to Noah.
‘I cannot recall.’
‘Come now, it was only the other night. Let me remind you. You had just completed the scene you were enacting just now. You came off stage. Where did you go?’
Once again that glance at de Askeles, who now was haranguing one of the amateur performers.
‘I cannot say.’
'then perhaps you can tell me what you did with the bag of carpenter's tools you had then, and where they are now.’
Peper hung his head in silence, not sure what he could say. Bullock grimaced, and drew himself up as he used to do on parade.
'then, if you cannot tell me where you were, I have no choice but to arrest you for the murder of Brother Adam.’
Chapter Ten
GOD: Amongst all the angels there was none, as you know,
That sat so closely to my Majesty.
I charge you fall till I say ‘No’
In the pit of Hell evermore to be.
The Fall of Lucifer
With only a few days to the start of the Christmas celebrations and the presentation of the plays cycle by Stefano de Askeles's troupe, Oxford was filling with peasants from the surrounding countryside. At this time of year they actually had some time to spare from the normal agrarian grind, and the possibility that another murder might be played out before their eyes added an extra spice to coming to see the plays. It was some disappointment therefore when the milling crowds discovered that the town constable had arrested the murderer. But there was still the hope that the new holy relic of St Eldad might produce a miracle, and the general excitement was increased by the numerous side-shows that now filled the narrow streets of the town.
Edward Petysance felt a new confidence in his ability to draw the crowds to his church, and strolled around observing the mummers and acrobats sweating to earn their money despite the chill that hung in the afternoon air. Fish Street was the most popular spot to perform as it ran from north to south, and the low sun shone down its length casting giant shadows. Near the South Gate, a crowd garnered round the shambling figure of a performing bear, then reeled back in a body when the trainer holding its lead caused it to lunge at those standing closest. Everyone gasped, then giggled nervously to reassert their bravado. Truth to tell the bear was old, and its fur hung lank and dull from its shrunken haunches. But when it reared up on its back legs, and blew its noxious breath through yellowed teeth at master and peasant alike, it seemed a fearsome creature.
Further along there were several bastaxi - puppeteers - retelling familiar stories through the mannequins they manipulated. Some were crude, stiff figures carved as soldiers and fixed to the ends of rods that the puppeteers pushed together from opposite ends of a table set up in the street. The swords at the ends of the outstretched arms rattled together as the bastaxi retold stories of Crusader victories. They attracted the uneducated and gullible, but Petysance far preferred the animated puppets that enacted domestic scenes on top of an upright cloth booth that hid the puppeteer from sight. There was one close to St Aldate's Church and he lingered at the back of the crowd to watch. The booth was the height of a man, and had a tiny stage atop it like the full-size stage in front of St Frideswide's. Magical figures manipulated from below by the hidden puppeteer played out a quarrel between a lascivious wife and a cuckolded husband. The audience before the booth roared with laughter at some reference to the husband's lack of prowess, just as a voice behind Petysance spoke into his ear. He turned to be confronted by the Prior of St Frideswide.
‘I beg your pardon - what did you say?’
The Prior's face looked as though he had swallowed vinegar thinking it to be wine.
‘I was reminding you of the Dean of Salisbury's observation on histriones.’ The Prior used the rather derogatory term for actors. 'there are three types - those who transform their bodies with indecent dance and gestures, sometimes unclothing themselves; others who have no true profession but act as
vagabonds telling scandalous tales; and those who play instruments for the delectation of men, and act out the gestes of princes and the lives of saints.’
He left no doubt in Petysance's mind how he classified de Askeles's troupe, due to perform in front of his church, compared to the low mob cavorting in front of the priest's. Petysance thought to remind the Prior of the waning powers of the relics of St Frideswide, and the great strength of those of St Eldad. But the old man had retreated into the milling crowd, so he contented himself with cursing his departing back. He continued to watch the secular drama depicted by the puppeteer, but somehow the tart comment from the Prior had spoiled it, and he drifted away. His attention was caught by an ugly man dressed in garish clothes of yellow and green, slashed on the torso to reveal grubby white linen beneath. The juggler had just laid down the plate he had been spinning on a stick, and was proclaiming he could perform miracles with a pitcher of water. Curious, the priest hurried over to the crowd he was drawing. Thomas de Cantilupe had thought when he left Oxford a few years before that he would never have to suffer the persistent attentions of this particular regent master again. He had almost forgotten how William Falconer could not be diverted from a logical train of thought once he had embarked upon it. He had nearly wiped from his memory the tenacity of the man's importunate demands. Now all those things came flooding back from the past. Before him stood Regent Master Falconer, a little more grizzled about the hair, a little more wrinkled about the face, but for all that the same man. It came as no surprise that he was involved in investigating the death of the monk - he had poked his nose into every suspicious death when de Cantilupe had last been in Oxford. And now he was demanding again. But this time what he was asking was impossible. De Cantilupe had only just reestablished himself in the favour of the King, and Falconer wanted him to put that at risk.
‘I cannot do it.’
‘But it would take little effort on the part of a man of your wit and wisdom.’
The same old flattery. The trouble was, he responded to it. When Falconer had turned up at the Chancellor's lodgings, along with the youth who now sat quietly in the corner, apparently awed by those in whose presence he sat, de Cantilupe knew he would end up doing exactly what the regent master required. He silently cursed himself for not giving the man's name to the King along with the other supposed conspirators'. He had only stopped short out of some insane sense of admiration for the man's tenacity. Even then he had guessed he was going to regret missing the opportunity; now he was sure of it. Still he tried to avoid the inevitable.
'the King may not be of a mind to allow such frivolity.’
Falconer smiled, leaning forward in his seat to press his great ham of a fist on de Cantilupe's knee. The action was of one recommending a humorous jest to a friend. ‘Henry will be happy to please his court at Christmastide, and besides, it is an old custom that the monarch should preserve. It will be the occasion of much jollity, after all.’
De Cantilupe did not think the King thought in terms of bringing ‘jollity’ to those who fawned on him. He began to speak, but Falconer's grip on the ex-Chancellor's knee tightened.
‘And it will give you an opportunity to clear your conscience over those unfortunate burghers, who have done nothing wrong other than offer some imagined slight in the minds of their accusers. You will have reinstated yourself in the King's favour at no cost to anyone.’
De Cantilupe was clearly weakening. He sank back in his chair, gazing at his old adversary. Further resistance was useless - the man always had an answer, and de Cantilupe had always given in. It was folly to think the passage of years would have changed anything. Weirdly, he realized he almost enjoyed their exchanges.
'very well. I will suggest to the King that he elect a Lord of Misrule from his kitchen servants at the feast today. I will do my best to ensure that ...’ He looked enquiringly at the youth.
'thomas.’ Falconer motioned for Thomas Symon to come forward.
'that Thomas, here, becomes that Lord. But after that it is up to the boy.’
Falconer clapped his rough hands together in delight, and smiled at the student before him. Thomas grinned back confidently - he had helped his master before with similar machinations.
‘Excellent. Thomas knows exactly what to do.’
When Stefano de Askeles heard that John Peper had been led off by the constable to be incarcerated for the murder of the unfortunate monk, he was furious. Not that he cared for the life of his actor, nor for the loss of his acting skills, for truly the man was poor at his craft. But his imprisonment left him short of a Noah and all the other minor parts that Peper played in the cycle. And no one would be able to learn them in time. Besides, the man was privy to a secret that de Askeles would rather he kept. In prison he might have occasion to blurt it out.
The evening shadows lengthened across the courtyard, and with the torches extinguished the stage lacked its normal glitter. Long and ominous shadows were cast by the device that the Prior's carpenters had only just installed at the back of the stage. With solid uprights and a sturdy crossbeam from which hung ropes threaded through pulleys, the device more nearly resembled a gallows than what in fact it was: the means by which God's throne, attached to the ropes and by the hidden effort of several brawny men, would appear to ascend uncannily to the heavens at the end of the play cycle. Now to de Askeles's eyes the gilded Mansion of God was dulled and without lustre. He sat on the edge of the platform drumming his leather-clad heels on its upright face, and clutching his fur-lined robe around him against the cold of the evening.
With the performances now barely more than a day away, and an indication that the King might attend, he was boiling with anger that all was not going well. If only he could secure the release of John Peper, then there was every opportunity to impress the royal court, and perhaps even earn a lucrative living from being taken into the King's employ. Of course he could then be rid of Peper, and Will Plome and Agnes Cheke as well. They were of use to fill a costume, or entertain stupid peasants, but at the King's court he would need finer players. Players like Margaret Peper, who was the finest saltatore he had ever seen. Her lithe and shapely limbs would be the currency to buy the cooperation of any courtier he fancied to further his aims. And all this was threatened by the stupidity of the woman's husband. It wasn't even as if he could have killed the monk. He slammed his fists down on the floor of the stage, causing an echo to boom through the darkness.
‘Who's there?’
A tremulous voice drifted out of the darkness at the side of the stage. De Askeles recognized it for the voice of the troupe's palmist and soothsayer, Agnes Cheke. At another time he might have taken the opportunity to play a trick on her, working on her fear of the place where but recently a man had been murdered. But another idea had begun to form in his mind. He sprang to his feet, and called out, ‘It's only me, you stupid woman. Stop skulking in the dark and come here.’
Agnes's courage returned when she realized it was neither the spirit of the monk nor the substance of his murderer that had caused the noise. She stomped over to confront him. ‘I'll thank you not to call me stupid.’
De Askeles ignored her retort and grasped her arm, drawing her to the flickering light of the tallow lamp he had left on the front of the stage.
‘What did you tell the constable when he asked where you were when the monk was murdered?’
'the truth, of course. What did you tell him?’
Once again de Askeles brushed aside her comment, and pressed his face close up to hers, his breath blowing frosty clouds at her. ‘Were you on your own? Did you tell him you were alone?’
‘Yes I was, and I told him so. I was washing those angels' robes that got dirty when the robbers attacked us. I was in the courtyard behind the inn.’
'so no one else saw you there?’
‘I don't think so. Why do you want to know?’
De Askeles grinned with pleasure at his own cleverness. ‘Because you are going to tell the constable
that you lied.’
Agnes began to protest, but de Askeles clapped his hand across her mouth, stifling her comment.
‘You are going to tell him you were with John Peper. And I don't care if you say he helped you wash the robes, or he got between your legs. Just convince him that John couldn't have killed the monk.’ He released the grip on her mouth, and she began to protest. But he stopped her. ‘You do want to help him, don't you?’
Agnes was puzzled at first by de Askeles's apparent solicitude. She had imagined he would be glad to be rid of John, so that he could do whatever he liked with Margaret. Getting him released would not help that. On the other hand, he probably just wanted to make sure the plays went well the day after tomorrow. And why should she object? She was a fool not to have thought of the idea herself. She shrugged de Askeles's hands from her shoulders and agreed to do as he asked.
‘I'm not going to say he bedded me, mind.’ She blushed at the thought, and de Askeles roared with laughter at her obvious discomfiture.
‘You're right. No one would believe that a man would fancy you. So you'd better tell him something else - just be convincing.’
He jumped down from the stage and strode away towards the wagon, knocking the guttering tallow lamp off the edge of the stage and leaving Agnes in the icy darkness.
After persuading de Cantilupe to his mind, William Falconer felt he had done all he could for the moment in prosecuting his search for Roger Bacon's alchemist. Zerach's release depended on the plan he had devised to get Thomas Symon elected as the Lord of Misrule at the King's court, and Henry's willingness to play the foolish traditional Christmas game. Falconer's mind now turned back to the murder on the troubadours' stage. He wondered how far Peter Bullock had got with his investigations. His old friend was a sound keeper of the peace, good at knocking foolish heads together and resolving domestic quarrels. But when it came to navigating the convolutions of a murder, he feared Peter's directness blinded him to the narrow alley where the guilty often lurked. He trod only the seductively broad highway that could often mislead.