Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  ‘Your Majesty, I pray you attend the church of St Aldate's while you are in Oxford. The arm of St Eldad now rests in this church, and has already witnessed miracles.’

  Petysance's voice cut across the other conversations in the courtyard, and most of those closest to the King turned to stare at his presumption. It was not normal to pester royalty so, and those who heard Petysance thought the priest must have taken leave of his senses. Perhaps the possession of the holy relic had turned his mind. The King, startled by the interruption, merely waved his hand noncommittally at the priest and leaned across to speak to de Cantilupe. Thomas Symon could not make out what he said, and was about to command the former Chancellor to explain when the plays recommenced. The Lord of Misrule returned his gaze to the stage, noticing as he did so that his master, William Falconer, was standing at the stage side looking somewhat downcast. He hoped that the master had heard that his stratagem had worked and that the prisoners had been released. He would take great pleasure in cheering Falconer up if he had not - and what a story he had to tell besides of his time as ‘King of England’.

  As Petysance melted back into the crowd, seemingly unconcerned by his rebuff, all eyes turned back to the actors. The defeat of the Antichrist by the Archangel Michael was performed to the left of the long stage, where Hell stood. John Peper was acting the role of the Archangel, and he spoke the words as though he had something else on his mind. However, he wielded the sword with venom, and the Antichrist, in the form of Robert Kemp, seemed glad to fall back into the yawning hole of the trap-door, which was left open as a dire warning to the sinners in the crowd.

  A curtain was drawn back at the extreme right of the stage, where now stood the Mansions of Heaven. The backcloth before the crowd's admiring eyes held depictions of blossoming trees of cherry, apple and pear, creating the image of celestial paradise. In front of the cloth stood the throne of God with two taut ropes stretched out above it. These were to raise God into the heavens at the end of the scene, and at the other end of the ropes several burly men stood ready to carry out their task. On the throne in a rather stiff posture sat de Askeles, dressed as God with the imposing sunburst mask over his face.

  The final scene required Archangel Michael to lead the characters Enoch and Elias from the pit of hell to the throne of God. The actors playing their parts, two silversmiths who the rest of the year toiled in their workshops in the High Street, looked expectantly at John Peper. They were ready to take their lead from him, but he just stood stock still, as though he had forgotten his lines. He tried to begin his speech.

  ‘Now to Heaven where the Lord is,

  Shall . ’

  Only the two men on the stage saw clearly the anguish in Peper's eyes, and at first thought he was angry at his own error. But then Peper gave out an inhuman groan that chilled the onlookers' hearts, and lurched across the stage, sword still in his hand. Later, several people said he struck God down in silence, others that he cried something like ‘Defiler of women!’ All could aver that John Peper drew his sword back, and impaled Stefano de Askeles on the throne of God with a single blow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LUCIFER: Alas! for all our woe and wickedness!

  I am bound so fast in this plight and cheer,

  And never away from hence may pass

  But lie in Hell with all for ever still.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  The rest of the night was pandemonium. The crowd gasped as one, and those nearest the stage instinctively pushed backwards to escape. Knots of onlookers collapsed in heaps, and the courtyard suddenly became a maelstrom of tangled limbs. Those still on their feet fled for the nearest exit, not caring whom they flattened in the process. The men-at-arms in front of the King sprang up and surrounded him, ensuring that the homicide did not become a regicide. In the process, Thomas Symon was unceremoniously tumbled from his throne, and ended up sitting on the hard wooden platform entangled in the oversize cloak he had borrowed from the King.

  Peter Bullock was the first to regain his composure, and yelled at the two startled silversmiths on stage to take hold of John Peper. They took one look at the frenzied actor and, despite the fact that he was still struggling to pull the sword from the corpse, fled to safety down the steps. As Bullock cursed and tried to heave his crooked bulk on to the stage, Peper gave up his unequal struggle with the transfixed sword and darted across the boards in their wake. Before he reached the steps, however, he spotted Falconer barring his path. The master looked well able to defend himself, and Peper took the only other route out. He dived through the trap-door and down into Hell.

  Falconer and Bullock arrived at the mouth of the trap at the same moment, and peered into the smoke that was still rising from it.

  ‘Let me go first,’ said Falconer. ‘I am a little more agile than you.’

  Bullock grunted, but let his friend drop through the trap-door first anyway. Then he sat on the edge and fell the few feet to the ground beneath. Falconer was kicking over the brazier of smouldering wood chippings that was causing the smoke, but he could not see Peper anywhere.

  ‘You go that way and I'll go this.’ Falconer pointed along the front of the understage and went himself towards the back. Bullock set off in an ungainly crouch. The smoke of hell still hung around under the stage, and the constable began to cough as he drew it into his lungs. He could hear Falconer also wheezing away to his left, but could not see him in the darkness. The innumerable struts that held the stage up turned the area into a maze, and Bullock felt disorientated. He imagined he could walk past Peper crouching in the dark only feet away from him and be none the wiser. Gradually his eyes did adjust a little, and he could make out a large barrel lying on its side ahead of him. He approached it with care and peered in the open end. Peper was not in hiding in it - it was half full of stones. Bullock wondered what it was doing here, then realized how the sound of the earthquake in the Crucifixion scene had been effected. He had almost reached the end of the stage and the weak shaft of light that penetrated the gloom there, when he heard Falconer calling away to his right. His voice was muffled and strange, almost disembodied. Bullock shuddered, but moved in the direction from which he thought the voice had come. When he found him, Falconer was fingering the heavy cloth that blanked the back of the understage off from the lane that ran beside the church. It had been roughly torn away at one corner and, though it was as dark outside as underneath the stage, it was clear their quarry was gone.

  They made their way back to the trap-door and stuck their heads up into the dying light of the torches that surrounded the stage. Most of the crowd had gone, except for those for whom the sight of death was an attraction. They were the sort who would have derived bloodthirsty satisfaction from seeing the Oxford merchants whom Falconer had freed dancing on the end of a rope. Better still if they had been drawn and quartered. Falconer was glad he had deprived them of that pleasure. The King and his entourage were long gone, the men-at-arms no doubt having broken a few heads in the crowd to ensure a speedy and safe escape for the monarch. Only a forlorn Thomas Symon sat on the edge of the King's platform, stripped of his purple robe and his title. A huddle of figures, including two actors still dressed as angels, hovered around the slumped body, which was still impaled on the murder weapon.

  Falconer used his powerful arms to push himself on to the edge of the trap, and bent down to offer assistance to Peter Bullock.

  ‘I think I will come out at the front of the stage, if you don't mind. I am no saltatore.’

  Falconer acknowledged the constable's caution, got to his feet and went over to the body of de Askeles. By the time Bullock had emerged from the front of the stage, and climbed the steps at one side, Falconer was already assisting in the removal of the sword, and the mask from the actor's head. It was almost a relief when the corn-coloured locks of de Askeles fell out of the mask - at least it was not another murder by mistaken identity. His face was a waxy colour and the eyes closed - he seemed almost peaceful. Quite unlike
the man in life. As they laid him down on the stage, one arm slumped away from those holding him and slapped down on the wooden floor. The thud alarmed those supporting de Askeles and they almost dropped him. Robert Kemp and Simon Godrich went to fetch a hurdle to carry the body away, but Falconer stooped over it, examining the wound.

  ‘At least you can't tell me that the carpenter did this one,’ commented the constable. ‘I have scores of witnesses to say John Peper killed him - including the King of England himself! And I do not doubt that he was responsible for the earlier attempt that resulted in the monk's death. I should never have listened to you and released him - this would not have happened if I hadn't.’

  To Bullock's exasperation, Falconer just ignored him and stared off into space. The constable knew, to his cost usually, that the regent master always had that look when an earth-shattering idea had struck him. Still, he could not see how this death could be anything other than straightforward - everyone had seen Peper land the blow that killed de Askeles. Even William Falconer would have to admit that. Bullock realized he must have spoken his thoughts out loud when Falconer replied, ‘What? Of course I do not deny that John Peper thrust a sword into de Askeles. But the question is, did he kill him?’

  The King's hall at Beaumont was once again in a flurry of activity.

  Henry paced around his rooms, scattering servants before him. Eventually the Queen calmed him down, but he was still resolved to leave Oxford early the following morning. He gave the order for a return to London, and sent for Thomas de Cantilupe. The fearful ex-Chancellor entered the King's chamber thinking that once again his world had toppled around him. And inevitably he blamed Regent Master Falconer for the whole misfortune. If it was not the Lord of Misrule fiasco that had angered the King, then murder before his very eyes had. And it was all Falconer's fault - he seemed to attract death to him like lightning to the loftiest tree. A pity that he had not been blasted into oblivion like the tree. The King beckoned de Cantilupe to him peevishly, looking all of his considerable years. His face was lined with age, and if de Cantilupe had not known his drooping eyelid was a family trait, he might have supposed Henry suffered from the half-dead disease. However, the King clearly had full control over both his arms, which he waved in agitation.

  'the world is turned upside down without the need for a Lord of Misrule, de Cantilupe.’

  Thomas started to apologize for the stupid idea, but Henry cut him off.

  ‘What with de Montfort's sons and Berkeley and Bassett marauding in the countryside around the marshes of Ely, robbers who do not even respect the dignity of the King, and now this murder, it's clear we need some discipline in our realm.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I could not agree more.’

  De Cantilupe would grovel as far as necessary to preserve his newly won position. Let the Devil take William Falconer - he would never listen to him again. The King thrust a parchment and quill into his hands.

  'take this down.’

  De Cantilupe gasped - the King was trying his new resolve by asking him to take notes. But if Henry wanted him as a scribe then one he would be. He crossed to a table where stood an inkwell, and spread the parchment before him. The King resumed his pacing as he spoke.

  ‘Item: that watches be renewed in all township, which have been allowed to lapse, and by honest and able men. Item: that the hue and cry be followed according to ancient custom ... Where was the hue and cry this night, I would like to know? Don't write that down . Write this: All who refuse and neglect to follow a hue and cry shall be taken into custody as aiders of the wrongdoers. Item: let four or six men according to the size of the township be chosen to follow the hue and cry swiftly ... and with bow and arrow or other light arms to be provided at the cost of the township. Let me see ... Item: that no stranger abide in the township except by day, and that he depart while it is still light. Item: that the bailiffs and burghers of all townships be ordered that if any passing merchant show them money he is carrying, then they must ensure his safe conduct through the township. And if he loses aught then let him be indemnified by the said burghers. There, that will do. I have a mind to clear all the highways between market towns of any undergrowth also, but that will suffice for now.’

  De Cantilupe nodded at the sagacity of the King, and prayed that the murdering troubadour would be found soon and given his just deserts.

  It was the middle of the night, and freezing cold, but Falconer seemed to be able to ignore this discomfort. He was far more interested in the body of Stefano de Askeles, which now lay before him. He had persuaded Peter Bullock to arrange to bring it to Aristotle's Hall, where it had been laid out on the long communal table the students used for their meals. He had had to clear the crumbs, wine dregs and other debris of the last meal before the body could be placed there. Falconer had irreligious thoughts of the Last Supper and the body and blood of Christ as he surveyed de Askeles's mortal remains. Then he shook his head to clear it and pondered his task. First he doused the embers that still glowed in the fireplace to prevent the warmth from disturbing the study he intended to make of the body.

  He slowly began to undress de Askeles, which proved awkward as the death rigor was now setting in. Underneath the white gown with gilded edges was another, more bloodied robe, which he proceeded to remove also. Eventually all the clothing was discarded, and the corpse was revealed as yellow as the candles that lit the scene. Falconer seemed oblivious of the group of staring faces at the top of the staircase that led to the students' sleeping quarters. The delivery of a body was not something that could be carried out quietly, and the students had been roused from their slumbers. Now they stared at an unbelievable sight, used as they were to their master's strange pursuits. On the very table where they had imagined their imminent Christmas feast lay a naked corpse that Falconer was poking and prodding as though in search of some hidden meaning. Falconer barely halted his examination to let the students know he was indeed aware of their existence.

  ‘I ask no more than that you keep out of the way . and learn.’

  The door leading out on to the lane opened, and Bullock appeared with a grey, nondescript man with a bald patch that resembled a monk's tonsure, and he carried a bundle held tightly under his arm. Falconer strode over to him.

  ‘Ah, Bonham. Thank you for coming at such an ungodly hour. I need your expertise.’

  Richard Bonham was also a regent master at the university, lecturing normally in rhetoric. He was a number of years younger than Falconer, but his bald head and serious demeanour gave the impression of a much older man. Falconer often disagreed with his views, but respected him for his obsessive interest in a particular area of knowledge that had to be kept a deadly secret. Successive popes had expressly forbidden the anatomizing of the human body, and few people were bold enough to contravene the papal interdictions. A handful of scholars quietly boasted of having explored one or two corpses in a lifetime of study. Falconer knew Richard Bonham had dissected at least four in as many years.

  In response to Falconer's statement, Bonham looked first greedily at the body, then fearfully at the ring of students above him.

  ‘I cannot do that. Here. With everyone looking on.’

  He turned to leave, but Falconer stayed him with a hand on his arm. 'they are all thirsters after knowledge, like you and me. Besides, I am not certain we will need your ... implements.’

  Falconer pointed at the neatly tied leather bundle that Bonham clutched in his nervous hands. He knew it contained a set of fearsomely sharp knives which Bonham used to cut precisely into the flesh and muscle of the bodies he dissected. Falconer had seen one flayed and laid out like meat in a butcher's shop in the man's basement. His own curiosity had overcome the horror of seeing the innermost parts of a human being revealed in such a fashion. Others might not view it so impartially and scientifically. Bonham and his like had to be very cautious. Falconer continued, ‘A superficial examination may be enough.’

  Thus reassured, the little master returned
his gaze to the body on the table. Crossing the room to it, he ran his delicate hands over the corpse's limbs, then over the eyes.

  ‘Hmm. The facial muscles are stiffening, but the extremities not so much. So he has been dead a short time. Perhaps the length of time between sext and nones. Yet not quite as cold as the air, so he died less than half a day ago.’

  Bullock began to protest. ‘What is all this about, William? We know exactly when he died - we were all there. And we saw who killed him. Even you have to admit it was John Peper.’

  ‘Patience, Peter,’ said Falconer. ‘You may think you do not need to know what Master Bonham can tell you, but please at least indulge my whim for a little while.’

  Bullock blew his breath out in exasperation. It emerged as a visible plume in the coldness of the room. Unaware of the exchange, Bonham had continued to examine the corpse.

  ‘Note the typical waxiness of the skin.’ He paused as he poked his fingers in the gash in the lower chest where John Peper had plunged the sword. ‘I presume you closed his eyes and washed the body.’

  Falconer shook his head, and Bonham look puzzled.

  'then where is all the blood? Show me his clothes.’

  ‘Here they are.’ Falconer went over to where he had dropped the two layers of clothes and offered Bonham the white gown first. There was hardly a drop of blood around the tear made by the sword. Though there were stains on the hem, which was held in crumpled folds by the dried blood. But when they examined the robe de Askeles had worn underneath, they found it covered in blood. Bonham turned the second robe over and over in his hands. Suddenly he threw it down and rushed back to the body, struggling with its bulk.