by Ian Morson
‘Help me turn it over,’ he said impatiently.
Falconer stepped forward and together they rolled over de Askeles's body. Excitedly, Falconer pointed at the marking on the buttocks. ‘What are these bruises doing here?’
Bonham smiled. 'they are not bruises. You see, when we are alive our blood is spread evenly around our body. On death it falls to the lowest points in the body. That bruising is simply congestion of blood at those points.’
'strange, is it not, that it does not then show up so much on his back? He has been lying flat all the time since his death.’
Bonham acknowledged Falconer's comments, and was about to respond when he spotted something else. ‘Look at this. That's what I was looking for.’
Falconer peered closely where the little anatomist was pointing.
There were two wounds in the flesh of the actor's back, not one. He lifted the body up on its side, and looked first at de Askeles's back, then at his chest. He pointed to the higher wound in the back.
'this cut aligns with the gash in his chest. And that fits with the fact that John Peper was below de Askeles when he impaled him on the sword.’
Bullock could not resist interrupting. ‘Ah. You do admit Peper was on the end of the sword. Not some demon.’
Falconer ignored him, and continued, pointing to the lower wound, ‘While this one is smaller and bloodier.’
‘Exactly,’ shouted Bonham in triumph, as though Falconer were a slow student who had suddenly been led through a logical thesis to a full understanding of the concept under debate. ‘If you look at the second garment you showed me, the blood is all on the back, not the front. Meaning .’
He paused to allow his 'student' to draw the inevitable conclusion. Falconer obliged. 'that de Askeles was first stabbed in the back.’
Bullock was still puzzled. ‘But the blow from John Peper? Could it not have caused both wounds?’
Falconer and Bonham looked knowingly at each other, but it was Falconer who spoke first. ‘Unlikely. The sword went straight through him and stuck into the throne and I drew it out cleanly myself - it could not have pierced his back again. We are left with the inevitable conclusion that de Askeles was killed twice.’
Chapter Sixteen
GOD: Ay! wicked pride shall ever work thee woe My joy thou hast made amiss. I may well suffer: my will is not so That they should part thus from my bliss.
The Fall of Lucifer
'thank you for your expert opinion, master. Though there were some curiosities about the body that caused me to call for you, I am not sure I would have spotted the other wound myself.’
Falconer led Bonham away from the body on the table towards the door, picking up the tallow lamp that the little regent master had used to light his way through the warren of Oxford streets. It was pitch dark outside and Bonham shivered in the cold as he took his leave. He hesitated in the doorway, as though something were on his mind. Looking over his shoulder at the corpse, he took a deep breath and resolved to say what it was.
'this is the troubadour de Askeles, is it not?’
'that's correct.’
‘I cannot be entirely sure - it has been a number of years - but I am more or less certain . ’ He hesitated, and Falconer urged him to continue - he had a feeling the grey man had something important to say. Bonham went on, ‘And in death the face takes on a mask-like quality that does not aid recognition .’
Falconer's piercing blue eyes bored into Master Bonham as though trying to drag the information out of the man more quickly than he was prepared to give it. ‘But ...?’
'the man lying on your table there was not called Stefano de Askeles when I saw him last. It was the time of the earthquake in London. The time the King's uterine brothers arrived in England, and he appointed the accursed Aethelmar Archbishop over all the English prelates he could have chosen. What an uproar that caused - I remember there was a parliament at the time and .’
Falconer interrupted the flow. 'so, you're talking of some twenty years ago.’ He looked at the body. ‘He would have been the age my students are now.’
Bonham lowered his voice at the reminder that several young minds, incapable of keeping any secret, might possibly be listening. ‘Exactly. It was during my studentship that I met him.’
‘What was he doing in Oxford then?’
'the same as all of us.’
‘He was a student?’ Falconer was surprised.
‘And for a while a very good one, until the appeal of the tavern distracted him. And the attractions of a certain type of woman.’ Bonham pulled a disapproving face at his last words. The grey man was notorious for his disapproval of any master's indulgence in carnal pleasures. Falconer was not sure Bonham knew of his own peccadilloes in that sphere, and had been trying to make a point. The man's face was its usual impenetrable self. Falconer knew as everyone did that masters of the university could not marry, but no one expected them to be celibate. Except Bonham.
‘And his name was not de Askeles then. He was plain Stephen Askey from Banbury.’
‘Why did he leave?’
‘Of his own choice - he grew too lazy to apply himself and a travelling life appealed to him more. I am not surprised to see him return as a troubadour - the life would have suited his erratic nature. Nor am I surprised to see him come to this end. There were many then who would have liked to see him dead. I recall there was one particular occasion when he became ill - it was probably the pox - and he consulted a doctor. The man cured him, and was rewarded by Askey's refusal to pay. Indeed, he accused the man of necromancy. Some murderous threat was made by the physician, I believe.’
‘Do you recall who the doctor was?’
‘One of the Jews, I think. Zeno? Zero? No. Zerach, Zerach de Alemmania was his name.’
Deulegard was angered by the summons to the presence of Rabbi Jehozadok. The old man might be revered by others in his community, but to the youth he was just what he seemed - a feeble ancient no longer capable of defending his people against the Christian Jew-haters they were forced to live amongst. He pushed his way through the traders on Fish Street, lucky that the previous day's spectacular murder occupied their minds and their tongues. At another time he would have been jostled in return, or worse, for his disrespectful actions. Now the fish merchants stood in huddles with the woodsellers, the silversmiths with the tailors, and speculated on where the murdering actor, John Peper, had gone to ground.
The young Jew went into the Scola, closing the door and blanking off the noise of the market behind him. He climbed the stairs to Jehozadok's private quarters, and swung the door open ready to complain about his peremptory summons. The four people in the room - three men and a youth - surprised him, and prevented any initial outburst. They were an ill-matched bunch. Of course Jehozadok himself was there, sitting by the blazing fire but still wrapped in a woollen shawl as though the flames could do nothing to drive the chill of the English winter from his bones. The youth standing at his shoulder was Cressant, and at least he had the grace to be embarrassed at Deulegard's arrival, casting his eyes to the floor. He might have expected Cressant to be there - the spotty youth always questioned the wisdom of every decision Deulegard made for his group. It was not surprising that he should be the traitor on this occasion. But Deulegard was surprised to see the doctor, Zerach de Alemmania. He was a scrawny, cadaverous man whom Deulegard had never had anything to do with. The man kept himself to himself, rarely venturing from his house in Pennyfarthing Street. It was said he consorted with the Devil in his cellar, though he, Deulegard, was not stupid enough to believe such scandalmongering. He had no idea why Zerach was present, if the matter was to do with the recent furore over the Christians' cross. The presence of the last man was an even greater surprise.
He knew William Falconer was a friend of Jehozadok's, although you could never wholly trust any Christian. When it came to lines being drawn, he was sure he knew where the regent master would stand. And it was not with the other people in this ro
om. The hothead impatiently enquired of Jehozadok what this was all about. ‘And why do we have to have this Christian present?’
Jehozadok smiled indulgently, his milky eyes impenetrable. 'this Christian is present because it was he who asked me to gather everyone here together. You should address your questions to him.’
Deulegard spluttered in anger that the foolish old man should be so fawning and subservient to the Christian as to do his bidding in this way. He turned to leave, and was casually thrust back by the rock-like fist of the Christian as though he were of no weight at all. He preserved his young dignity by casting his eyes to the heavens as if to intimate he would humour the foolishness of age, and crossed the room to slump in a vacant chair opposite Jehozadok.
'thank you for your courteous acquiescence.’
Falconer's wry tone did not abash Deulegard, who indicated by a wave of his hands that Falconer could ask all the questions he liked of him. He clearly was not going to answer, but Falconer did not give him a chance to be awkward.
‘I will come to you later. In the meantime, I want to speak to your friend.’ He stepped over to the confused Cressant and placed a friendly arm on his shoulder. 'tell me, what was the attack on the procession yesterday all about?’
Deulegard could not resist, and surged forward out of the chair before a startled Cressant could speak. ‘Revenge. Revenge for the Christian murder of a Jew.’
‘In which another Jew got killed.’
‘We must be prepared to give our lives to save ourselves.’ This last comment was directed at the blushing Cressant, who cowered behind the frail body of Jehozadok. When Falconer indicated he did not wish to ask him any more questions, Deulegard subsided back into his chair. Falconer touched the rabbi on the shoulder.
‘Rabbi, as it is the death of Solomon that has stirred this hornets’ nest, will you please be so kind as to tell everyone what you told me yesterday.’
‘About Solomon's visit to me just before he died?’
Falconer nodded and Jehozadok's mind drifted back to a morning when Solomon had returned from his nightly duty of guarding the Jews' cemetery outside East Gate. The old man had been very agitated about something - agitated enough to come directly to the rabbi rather than seek out his food and rest in the hovel he shared with his sister. Jehozadok had been the first to speak.
'solomon. What is the matter?’
The man could hardly put two words together coherently, and Jehozadok spent some time calming him before the story came out. The rabbi remembered the rambling tale almost word for word, and pictured the old man telling him.
‘I was in my hut like always - you know I stay there to make sure the bodies are safe - especially after the monks took that land away from us. You know I had to move thirty bodies then and re-bury them on the other side of the road. Well, this was a few nights ago - just after those actors arrived. I thought I heard a noise in the graveyard, and got up to see what it was. There's often noises, but I'm used to foxes and the like. It was nothing like the noise they make, which is a sort of scratching sound like this . ’
In Jehozadok's mind Solomon once again scraped the talons that were his work-worn fingers across the surface of the oaken table in this very room. Deulegard snorted with impatience at the rabbi's story and Solomon's wraith disappeared from his mind as Jehozadok continued.
'so, he said he knew it wasn't an animal and lit a candle and went to look. And he saw someone.’
Zerach coughed in obvious embarrassment. ‘I suppose I had better own up - he must have seen me. You see, I needed saltpetre for an experiment I was to carry out. And the best place to find it in its purest state is a dunghill or a graveyard.’
Falconer smiled conspiratorially at Jehozadok. ‘No, it wasn't you, Master Zerach. Tell them, rabbi, who Solomon said he saw.’
‘God. He said he saw God come to take someone away.’
The troupe of actors were unusually downcast, bearing in mind their common dislike of Stefano de Askeles. Bullock would have imagined that his death would have been a source at least of comfort, if not of rejoicing. Instead they were drifting around the empty stage picking up the scattered remnants of costumes and other properties that had been dropped in the mad scramble the previous night. Simon Godrich fingered the splintered back of God's throne, a raw gash of plain bare wood showing through the ruined gilding. The ropes that would have pulled it to the heavens lay in a limp, slack bundle on the stage. Agnes was attempting to roll up the backcloths. She was having difficulty with the one that showed the darkened clouds of the Flood, which kept creasing as she rolled it. In full daylight the painted blossom of the cherry trees in Paradise was wan, and clearly crudely executed. The magic of the previous day had been completely washed away.
Waiting for Falconer to arrive, Bullock observed Robert Kemp trying to raise the spirits of a dejected Margaret Peper. She was sitting on the edge of the stage, her feet kicking idly at the air. Kemp was standing below her in the courtyard, juggling with three wrinkled apples. They flew in the air in bewildering arcs, and he was making them go higher and higher. Suddenly there was an ear-piercing screech and the juggler took his gaze off the apples. They fell to the ground and he cursed. Beside the wagon, from which the screech had come, squatted Will Plome sucking a bloody finger. Next to him the monkey was shaking the bars of its cage in agitation.
‘He bit me,’ mumbled the fool around the finger that was still stuck in his mouth. Bullock thought bleakly that even the monkey was out of sorts today.
He was about to give up on his friend when Falconer came striding across the courtyard from the direction of Fish Street. His eyes gleamed with excitement, as though great news had recently been imparted to him. But when Bullock raised a questioning bushy eyebrow, Falconer merely grinned irritatingly and thanked him for gathering the actors together.
‘But before I speak to them, I just want to look around at that side of the stage.’ He pointed to the left, where last night he had thought he might find the body of de Askeles before the very man, alive and kicking, had pushed past him. When they got there, Falconer poked around on the earth floor and peered at the wooden steps that led up to the stage. He seemed disappointed until he looked more closely at the chest that had been on that side of the stage last night. Clear on its top surface and down the front was a smear of red.
‘Could you ask Agnes to come over here, please?’
‘What is it? Blood?’
Falconer would not say until Bullock brought Agnes over. He pointed at the mark and asked her what she thought it was. Agnes laughed. ‘Holy blood.’
In response to Falconer's questioning look, she amplified. ‘You see, Stefano had a lucrative sideline in selling holy relics. He claimed he had obtained them at the Roman Curia, where he had been brought up the bastard son of the Pope. He was a fake, and so was the blood. John made it up for him out of red pigment and water. I remember him spilling some down the trunk.’
Bullock expected Falconer to look disappointed, but he merely smiled broadly. He thanked Agnes, and asked Bullock to assemble the other actors in the courtyard. Then he lingered behind to exchange a few more words with Agnes. The constable did not hear their conversation, but clearly something very satisfactory was said, because Falconer virtually skipped across the courtyard in his pleasure. He gathered the actors around him with a sweep of his arm. The constable imagined that Falconer was going to carry out another round of questioning, and was therefore astounded when Falconer invited them all to Aristotle's Hall.
‘We will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow, and I want you to help me perform a mummers’ play. I am sure you know one well enough.’
With a glance at Margaret, Simon Godrich probably expressed what was on all their minds.
'stefano usually played the major role. Besides, how can we perform when John is a fugitive?’
‘I think I might manage to stand in for . shall we say absent performers. And I may have some news of John by then.’
T
here was a hungry look of interest in Margaret's eyes, but Falconer would say no more. Uncertain, they eventually agreed to carry out his wishes, and promised to give him a copy of the words he would have to speak himself. As they moved off in a group to plan the staging of the play, Bullock grabbed Falconer's arm.
‘What did you mean about John Peper? If you know where he is, you must tell me.’
Falconer as ever was being infuriatingly secretive. 'tomorrow will be soon enough, Peter. In the meantime, I must speak with an unfortunate wife and mother in the hovels outside South Gate.’
Chapter Seventeen
GOD: And though they have broken my Commandment
I rue it full sore and sufferingly;
Nevertheless I will have mine intent;
What first I thought shall still come to be.
The Fall of Lucifer
The communal hall at Aristotle's was transformed. It was normally a gloomy, cramped room dominated by the refectory table that filled the centre of the space. The table spoke eloquently of generations of students who had sat at it. Each stain and scratch was the reminder of some careless youth or boisterous exchange of views over a frugal meal. Some marks were the deliberate carvings of boys who wished to perpetuate their presence with a set of initials and a date. Even these wore away over time as later incumbents rubbed and scrubbed the surface clean, until each student's effort at immortality was no more than a series of indistinguishable ridges criss-crossed with later efforts.
This monument of a table, however, had now been moved to one end of the hall, where it appeared to be but a shadow of its former self. It had taken the combined efforts of Falconer and three students to move, and now the youths were spreading fresh rushes on the floor while Falconer admired their efforts. The hall now looked unusually large, and the table resembled in miniature the stage that stood in the courtyard of St Frideswide's Church. So much so, that fleetingly Falconer thought of acting out the mummers' play on its surface, but the low-ceilinged room would not allow that. No, there would be plenty of room to enact the play on the floor - he did not envisage a large audience for it, after all. And there was another purpose to the whole arrangement anyway - a much more serious purpose.