Falconer's Trial (17 page)

The Templar commandery outside Oxford was small by the standards of the Order, but Laurence de Bernere loved the old grey stone building that was its main hall. Over the doorway that led into the hall was a semi-circular tympanum, and carved on it was an ancient image. Worn smooth by time, it was a carving of a soldier on horseback in a pointed helmet with a nose guard and a chain mail hauberk of old design. In his hand the warrior held a spear. The point of the spear was thrust into the mouth of a snake-like beast and the horse’s hooves were trampling its coils. Like many fighting Templars, Laurence venerated George, the warrior saint. Early that morning, he had again gazed on it as he did almost every day on his way to the Temple chapel. It was a circular building that copied the layout of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Three young knights were to be admitted to the Order that morning, the ceremony starting as it always did at dawn. The chapel was cold and gloomy, lit only by tall candles, but the ceremony never failed to move him. Now, the three men were coming to their final vows and the chaplain asked them the ritual questions.

‘Are you willing to renounce the world?’

All three replied in clear and strong voices.

‘I am willing.’

‘Are you willing to profess obedience according to canonical institution and according to the precept of the Lord Pope?’

‘I am willing.’

‘Are you willing to take upon yourself the way of life of our brothers?’

‘I…’ Each gave their own name at this point. ‘. . . am willing and I promise to serve the Rule of the Knights of Christ, so that from this day I shall not be allowed to shake my neck free of the yoke of the Rule. And, henceforth, I promise obedience to God and this house, and to live without property, and to maintain chastity according to the precept of the Lord Pope, and firmly to keep the way of life of the brothers of the house of the Knights of Christ.’

As the three young knights then prostrated themselves on the cold stone flags before the altar, de Bernere was aware of a shadowy figure slipping on to the stone bench beside him. Irritated by this interruption, he nevertheless did not look to see who it was, but concentrated on the ceremony’s conclusion. All three men on the ground intoned their final prayer.

‘Receive me, Lord, in accordance with your word and let me live. And may you not confound me in my hope. The Lord is my light. The Lord is the protector of my life.’

‘As will be a strong, right arm.’

That cynical comment came from the man who had just sat next to him and he was annoyed enough to turn and remonstrate with him. He recognized the old, grey-haired man immediately, his bent back obvious even when he was seated.

‘Sergeant Bullock. I might have known it was you, spoiling the mood of the ceremony.’

He cast a mournful glance at the three young men prostrate on the stone floor. They were just beginning their service to the Order that had dominated his life for over twenty years now. And the life of the old man next to him, until he left its ranks due to doubts about his calling. Bullock had been a sergeant in the Order, and as such he had served the needs of the true knights of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of the Temple of Solomon, as the Templars were once called. Bullock would have worn a brown robe instead of white and had one horse instead of three. A sergeant was after all not a nobleman. Laurence de Bernere, however, respected the sergeant brothers. They were the backbone of the Order, often saving the life of the knight they served, when he allowed a sense of chivalry to overcome common sense. Bullock was no different from all the rough and ready sergeants of the Order. And if he was at the Temple so early in the morning, then something was afoot. And de Bernere owed Bullock and his friend, William Falconer, a debt of gratitude over the recovery of a precious relic, now stored safely in the Temple once again.

‘Come, I have seen enough. Tell me what is on your mind.’

He rose, and led Peter Bullock out of the Temple and into the light and warmth of an English morning.

It was not long before the rumours of what had happened in St Mildred’s Church spread around the students at the university. They would normally have been occupied with studies. But as the Black Congregation consisted of around seventy of the regent masters teaching at Oxford, few classes were taking place. Therefore, many of the students were at a loose end, bored, and open to the gossip coming out of the trial of William Falconer. Those few classes that were taking place, were soon disrupted by clerks breaking in on the studies of others to pass on the news. Thomas Symon was in charge of one such class, when a wild-eyed youth clattered through the door at the back of the school room. All heads turned towards the intruder.

‘Have you heard? Master Falconer has punched Master Cornish in the face, beaten him to a pulp, he has.’

There was a communal gasp from the assembled students and then a buzz of chatter that Thomas knew he was not equal to stopping. The trial had everyone distracted anyway, and now this incident was the final straw. He might as well give up for the day. Besides, he wanted to find out the truth for himself.

‘Lessons are suspended. Learn your Priscian for tomorrow.’

His instructions were hardly heard as the students scrambled for the exit from the small, stuffy room. Thomas waited for the scrum to disperse, and then hurried off towards St Mildred’s Church along the narrow alley that was called Cheyney Lane. He was in time to see the last of the regent masters leaving, and spotted the German, Heinrich Koenig. The man had been generous with his tuition when Falconer had been preoccupied by murder cases, and Thomas knew him to be unbiased and truthful.

‘Regent Master Koenig, may I speak with you.’

The German stopped and looked back to see who had called him. When he recognized his former student, he smiled and stroked his luxuriant moustache.

‘Ahh. Thomas Symon, I suppose you want the gossip, eh?’

His guttural, Bohemian accent was difficult for some to understand, and when an unwary student called him a German, he bristled and proceeded to give the poor youth a geography and history lesson. The King of Bohemia was one of seven German Electors of the Holy Roman Emperor. But Bohemia was not German to a proud Bohemian. However, beneath his prickly exterior, Koenig was a generous man, and a bit of a gossip.

‘You want to know what happened in the Black Congregation today. Whether the rumours are true.’ He chuckled, his moustache wobbling from side to side. ‘What do the rumours say? That Falconer has now murdered Ralph Cornish with his bare hands?’

Thomas Symon gasped.

‘He hasn’t, has he?’

‘No, no. It’s just that I saw what really happened, and I know how the tales that circulate do tend to exaggerate as they pass from lips to lips. Don’t look so worried. There was only one blow landed, though it was a mighty one that floored the unfortunate Cornish.’ He smacked one fist into his palm as if to emphasize the impact. ‘Oh dear, there I go, embroidering the story myself now.’

‘But what made Master Falconer lash out like that?’

‘Oh, it was Cornish’s fault. He cast a slur on a lady friend of Falconer’s. He called her a Jew, in a most derogatory way.’

‘He knows of Saphira?’

A broad grin filled Koenig’s face.

‘Ach. So, it is true, then, that Falconer has been bedding a pretty, Jewish widow? Oh, dear, that will not play well with some in the congregation. If Cornish were merely stirring up trouble with unfounded rumours, it would not have mattered so much. But if he has spoken the truth, it will not go well with Falconer.’

Koenig bowed his head and strode off with his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. Thomas cursed his loose tongue and went off to see if Bullock had returned from his trip to the Templar commandery.

In fact, the constable was on his way back from the Temple, but was in no hurry. He let his old nag amble along the track that led back to Oxford, nibbling grass when it could, while he pondered what he had learned from Laurence de Bernere. It had all been a little inconclusive for Bullock, who liked his facts simple and straightforward. The first step had been identifying the Templar.

‘Odo de Reppes? Why, yes, he is staying at this commandery at the moment. Why do you ask?’

De Bernere was curious about Bullock’s enquiry, especially as it concerned de Reppes. The man had a fine reputation as a warrior, but he also carried along with him some unsubstantiated, dark rumours. De Bernere had never delved far enough into them to know what they were about, but now it seemed he had a chance. Except the Oxford town constable was reticent to divulge the reasons for his question.

‘I would rather not pass on false rumours at this stage. I merely wish to know if this de Reppes has returned from Outremer recently.’

The Templar played along with Bullock, hoping to learn more from him later.

‘Indeed he has – no more than a week ago, I would say. Unfortunately, the situation out there does not demand the services of a warrior. Both Tripoli and Acre have worked out truces with the Saracens. Even Prince Edward could do no more than help fortify Acre. De Reppes came back frustrated at what was going on.’

‘Frustrated, you say? About what?’

‘About the lack of action. And the disputes over who was rightly King of Jerusalem.’

Bullock grimaced. Once again, high politics was getting in the way, and he could not see where all this led. He would have to talk to Thomas Symon later. In the meantime, he could at least find out about Odo de Reppes’s whereabouts.

‘Can you say if he has been into Oxford since he came back? Or elsewhere locally?’

De Bernere frowned.

‘You will know, as a former sergeant of the Order, that any knight must ask permission of the master before leaving the commandery.’ When Bullock nodded, de Bernere sighed. ‘And you know I am temporarily the master of this commandery. So I can tell you what you wish to know.’ Another nod. ‘And you also know the rule on rumour –
ne sis criminator et susurro in populo
– do not malign the people of God.’

‘I said before that I am not interested in rumour. If there is any slur made against de Reppes, I know you will deal with it according to the rules of the Order.’

It was Laurence de Bernere’s turn to nod. The rule said a brother who had sinned should be chastised privately by a fellow brother, and only if he refused to accept that chastisement from two brothers would he have to confess in public.

‘Then I can tell you that Odo de Reppes was granted permission to go to Oxford on private business last Saturday. As the rule demands, he went with a companion – his sergeant, Gilles Bergier.’

Bullock now sat on his nameless nag, which had stopped to graze on the far edge of Cowley Marsh, trying to get his facts straight. He needed to find out what business de Reppes had in Oxford that day. But he didn’t want to confront the man at this stage and risk him fleeing before all the facts were known. That would not help William. He had thought of finding this Sergeant Gilles and finding out from him who his master had visited. But subtlety was not part of Bullock’s armoury, and he would no doubt have still given the game away by doing so. So he had been relieved when de Bernere offered to dig a little himself. The only problem was, knowing the secrecy of the Order of Poor Knights at first hand, Bullock could not be sure that de Bernere would share with him anything he discovered. Especially if it incriminated a fellow knight in murder. As it might well do, for by now Bullock had put the days in order. If he was remembering it correctly, it was the day after de Reppes visited Oxford that Ann had taken sick and soon after had died of arsenic poisoning.

SIXTEEN

B
y the end of the day, Saphira had only achieved half of the goals she had set herself. Her interview with Robert Bodin had been frustrating and inconclusive. She had arrived at the shop on the north side of the High Street late in the morning, but though the shutters were open, the shop seemed empty. No wares stood outside, as they normally did, and inside, the rear of the shop was in darkness. It was unlike the spicer not to be keeping a sharp eye on his valuable wares. She wandered uncertainly around the bags and barrels of sweet and pungent-smelling spices. After some time had elapsed with no sign of Robert, she took a pinch of cinnamon in her thumb and forefinger and touched it to her tongue.

‘What are you doing? I shall report you to the constable for stealing.’

From the door at the back of the shop, hidden in shadows, loomed the bulky figure of the spicer. As he emerged into the shaft of sunlight that illuminated the front of the shop, Saphira could see his face had lost some of its roundness, and his normally red complexion seemed almost yellow. He looked scared.

‘I was merely sampling your goods. The cinnamon is excellent.’

‘It was more than a sample you took. I would say that was a pennyworth.’

Saphira resolved to stay sweet. She needed to extract some information from this man, after all.

‘Then I shall pay you a penny. Do you by any chance have any arsenic powder, too?’

Bodin’s jaws wobbled as he shook his head.

‘I recognize you now. You are the woman who asked me about the talisman seller. You wanted to know if he bought arsenic. Now here you are asking about it yourself. What are you up to, eh?’

‘I have rats in my house. I wanted to kill them before they ate all the food in my larder. Is that not reasonable?’

Robert squinted at her suspiciously.

‘No, there’s something more on your mind. What have people been saying about me? The talisman seller said he just wanted the arsenic for killing flies. Now you want it to kill rats. Are you trying to trap me?’

Saphira was shocked by the man’s onslaught, and backed off as he strode towards her, intimidating her with his large frame.

‘Get out of my shop.’

She hurried out on to the street, only looking back when she realized that Bodin had not come further than the doorway of the shop. As she stared at him, he turned on his heels and disappeared inside once again. She decided to stay in the street for a while to see who else went into the spicer’s. Someone had frightened him and she wanted to see if whoever it was would return. In the hours before Robert Bodin closed his shop for the day, though, she saw few people go in. She did not know what she expected anyway. It was not as if a heavily disguised man in a black cloak would sneak through the door and murder Robert Bodin while she stood there. She laughed at her own foolishness. But she did persist with her watchfulness, and besides a beggar boy, who was shooed away before he could set foot in the shop, she saw only three customers. There were two sturdy women who looked like serving maids coming and going, and a black-garbed master of the university. He had a burgeoning bruise on his cheek and must have gone in for a remedy. With her new knowledge from Samson, she would have recommended oil of immortelle or everlast flower. After he had emerged, no one else went in, and by the time she had given up, it was too late to walk to Botley to speak to Margery. She made her way home thinking of rats and arsenic, knowing she needed someone other than Peter Bullock or Thomas Symon to share her ideas with.