Falconer's Trial (2 page)

But in this fifty-sixth year of Henry of Winchester’s reign, the third king of that name, in the year of Our Lord 1272, Bonham had contracted a dreadful disease due to some carelessness on his part when handling a body. When his house had burned down with him inside it, everyone had lamented the tragic accident. But William knew Bonham had sacrificed his life, and perhaps his immortal soul, to prevent the spread of typhus to others. Now, as Thomas Symon learned the skills of anatomy for himself, William was determined that a similar act of carelessness should not befall him. Regent Master William Falconer patted Thomas on the shoulder, drawing him back to his task.

‘Come. This elderly pig, which only yesterday was rooting in my backyard, calls for your attention to establish how I so foully slew her. And do hurry – my students are impatiently waiting for a good meal made from its carcass. Moreover, I have matters to attend to before you and other students of mine undertake Inception.’

Thomas smiled secretively. He knew what was on the regent master’s mind; it had been the talk of the university for days now. Inception was the final step in the young students’ process of qualifying as a Master, where they had to maintain a thesis in debate against any opponent. But on many occasions older regent masters used the days of the ceremony to throw out challenges to their peers by questioning the skill of their students. Just such an encounter was predicted in two days’ time. The rumour abroad was that Regent Master Ralph Cornish was preparing to debate with Falconer. Thomas didn’t reckon that such a public debate between William and Ralph could hold any fears for Falconer. Ralph Cornish was a regent master who stuck to the orthodox views on everything, whereas Falconer’s mind ranged freely on a myriad subjects. Thomas was sure his mentor and regent master would run rings round Ralph in a debate. And he told William so.

‘Master Ralph will be humiliated.’

Falconer smiled at Thomas’s confidence in his abilities, and certainly he was not afraid of the impending encounter. He was only worried that he might speak his mind too openly. He had a habit of getting into trouble with the establishment of the university, and in consequence the Church.

‘I have prepared my debating points. And anyway, if matters should go against me I have a little surprise in store.’

Thomas Symon raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Falconer would say no more. Turning back to the beast on the table, the young man pointed at a small tear in the pig’s heart.

‘This pig was killed by a thin blade being pushed through his chest and into his heart.’

Falconer patted him on the back.

‘Very well done. Now wash your hands in the vinegar water and we will eat.’

Sir Humphrey Segrim held on grimly to the gunwales of the little cog that had carried him across the Channel from Normandy. As it beat its way up the Thames on the incoming tide, he held his heaving stomach in check. He reasoned that it was the pork he had eaten in the dingy harbour tavern at Honfleur that afflicted him. It must have been bad. Now, he calmed the bubbling surge in his belly by scanning the level mud flats of the estuary. Then he cast a fearful look behind him to once again convince himself that the Templar was no longer on his tail. The broad, brown waters of the Thames Estuary bore only small craft dodging from shore to shore and into the various inlets. He breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Thank God my ploy of leaving from Honfleur has got rid of him.’

‘What’s that, Master?’

The whining Essex tones of the little vessel’s skipper reminded Segrim that there was precious little privacy on the small boat. Indeed, he had not realized he had expressed his relief out loud. He covered up his slip.

‘I said – when will we be landing?’

‘Not long, Master. The tide will not be at the full for a long time and we shall be at Shadwell steps soon. But are you sure you wish to disembark in the middle of nowhere? We will easily make Queenhithe before the tide turns.’

Segrim shook his head vigorously.

‘No, no! The middle of nowhere suits me fine.’

The cog’s skipper shot his passenger a strange look and shrugged his shoulders. The heavy-set old knight who had sidled up to him in Honfleur harbour had seemed furtive from the start, as though he had something to hide. But if he did, then the skipper cared not in the least. His wish to be dropped outside of London was his own business. Let the man drag his heels through the mud of Shadwell if he wanted. He was paying handsomely enough. The skipper jingled the coins he had earned in his well-stuffed purse and cast an expert eye over the sails of the sturdy cog that was his home from home. He knew a short stop at Shadwell would not delay him much and the taverns of Queenhithe would be all the sweeter for it. A sudden cross-current lifted the bow of the boat abruptly. It lurched, and the passenger threw up the contents of his stomach over the side.

In the end, Falconer eschewed the pork stew for himself. He had decided to call on Saphira that night and did not want the odour of a forbidden animal on his clothes. Or on his lips. It was some months now since Saphira Le Veske, a Jew from France, had surprised him with her forthrightness. For weeks since she had turned up in Oxford, they had performed a decorous dance around each other’s feelings. Then she had stopped his dithering by simply offering him her naked body.

He had revelled in her red-haired charms many times since, regularly breaking his notional vow of celibacy. A regent master of the university was supposed to be in holy orders of a sort, but many took the stricture with a pinch of salt. The rules really only meant that he could not marry and Falconer had indeed been celibate for many years before meeting Saphira. Except for the occasional romp with a pleasant whore from the stews of Beaumont, which didn’t count. His very public friendship with Mistress Ann Segrim had remained unconsummated, despite what others thought. She was the wife of Sir Humphrey Segrim of the Manor of Botley, and though the marriage was essentially a sham, still Ann held to her vows.

Perhaps that was why their friendship had not withstood the arrival of Saphira Le Veske in Oxford some months ago. The Jewish widow was all passion and fiery charm, where Ann was cool and composed. Falconer had not stood a chance. Yet he regretted the estrangement from Mistress Segrim and resolved to reinstate their friendship as soon as he could. But tonight he was to devote his time to Saphira.

Or so he thought.

Saphira was renting a house in Fish Street that belonged to her cousin Abraham. The front door was noticeable for a gouge in its surface caused by an axe. An axe which had almost split Falconer’s head open. It had been during a riot when the Jews of the town had been under attack for an imagined offence against the Christians. Saphira had dragged Falconer indoors just in time to save his brains from being splattered across her doorstep. The door had suffered badly from the blow, however, and the mark still marred the surface. But Falconer did not use this front entrance to Saphira’s house. For the sake of her reputation, and not really his own, he used the rear access to her house via Kepeharm Lane. This evening, he did not get as far as the narrow alley, however. As he passed her front door, Saphira came hurrying out, almost bowling him over.

‘Whoa!’ He grabbed her arm, halting her headlong progress and smiled ruefully. ‘I did not think to meet so publicly as this.’

‘William! How nice to see you. Was I expecting you? I am in rather a hurry.’

She smiled up at Falconer who was a head taller than her. He grinned and reached out to tuck a stray red curl back under the modest snood she wore in public. As a widow and a Jew, there were certain niceties to observe. Niceties that had no place in the privacy of her home, however. He had felt the lithe form of her body as they had collided, and marvelled again at the sleekness of her shape even though she was forty years of age. A twinge of disappointment shot through him.

‘You are going somewhere? I had thought we might… talk.’

Saphira pulled a face, expressing her regret.

‘I am sorry, William. Truly I am. But Samson has promised to teach me a little more about herbs and cure-alls. He has an alembic bubbling nicely and it will not wait for any man.’ She pressed her hand against his chest. ‘Even you.’

Falconer felt the heat of her hand through his robe. He was filled with desire for her, but knew that Saphira had recently conceived a desire to learn more about the art of herbs and their use in medicine. Samson the Jew was not getting any younger and had no one to pass his knowledge on to. His only child was Hannah, who though dutiful, had no desire to learn the secrets from her father. And although she had recently married Deudone, her new husband too showed little interest in the esoteric art. Saphira could not bear to let the knowledge lodged in Samson’s brain be lost and had spent weeks learning the basics. Now she was entering the next stage of her studies and had become an eager student. She saw the look of disappointment on William’s face and squeezed his arm discreetly.

‘Come later tonight, if you can. But beware, for I am learning about poisons. Today Samson is telling me how to concoct the most lethal of brews.’

She grinned at him and with a swirl of her favourite green gown, strode off down Jewry Lane.

TWO

S
ir Humphrey Segrim had instantly regretted his decision to disembark secretly at Shadwell. Only after the sturdy little cog that had brought him safely across the Channel had drifted away from the dock on the tide, did he look round. There was nothing but a rickety wharf and stinking tan yards. The smell of piss was overwhelming and no one was in sight. He had slumped down on his oak chest that contained all his armour and spare clothes and stared disconsolately over the mud flats towards London. In evading the Templar, he had landed himself in the middle of nowhere. He was safe for now, but could see nothing for it except to trust his worldly goods to luck, and to walk along the bank of the Thames towards Wapping. At least there would be someone there who could arrange his passage to Oxford. He had wearily hauled himself to his feet and trudged off into the mud.

Now, he sat in a dark, low-ceilinged inn perilously perched over the banks of the river Thames, drinking weak ale and eating an unidentifiable chunk of burned meat. All around him sat rough-looking workmen with big beefy hands that bore the scars of heavy rope and manual labour. They eyed Segrim with curiosity. He was a man well advanced in years, with long grey hair and a beard he had cultivated in the East. His skin was reddened by his journey, but he had the unmistakeable bearing of a nobleman. His tunic, though caked with mud along its hem, was of fine cloth. He clutched his purse nervously and cursed the fact he had left all his weapons except a dagger in the oak chest in Shadwell.

‘I have arranged a cart, Master. Jed will collect your chest and be back in no time.’

Segrim was startled by the sudden appearance of the scrawny man at his shoulder. He reckoned the fellow must be a thief to be able to pad around so quietly. He had seen Segrim looking lost on Wapping quay and offered his services. With no alternative, Sir Humphrey had given him a small coin and enlisted him in the recovery of his chest. Now, it seemed the rescue party was swollen by another man called Jed, who would no doubt also want paying. Segrim wondered if his purse would stand it, and if he would ever see his property again. Or his home and estate in Botley. He appeared to have fallen from one hot pan into another. Though he acknowledged that Osbert Smith – as the scrawny thief called himself – was to be preferred to the Templar. It might be like having to choose between facing either a slippery snake or a wild boar head on, but Segrim knew which he preferred. Chances are a snake like Osbert would slither into the undergrowth if threatened with a stick.

‘Sir, would you like another jug of ale?’

Segrim observed the man, who stood before him wringing a shabby felt hat in his calloused hands. He shuddered at the thought of drinking any more of the stale beer, that he was sure was just dipped directly out of the Thames. It had the same muddy brown appearance as the river.

‘No, Osbert. But you can take one for yourself.’

The little thief grinned as another coin was pressed into his palm, and waved his hand imperiously at the innkeeper.

Segrim stepped out of the inn, leaving the odour of sweat and stale clothes, and stood inhaling the less dank airs of the marshy river. As he stood at the quay, he saw a large sailed vessel, its sides black with pitch, drift by. It looked grand and yet at the same time dark and demonic to Segrim. It was no doubt on its stately way to Queenhithe and a more commodious landing than Segrim had found in Shadwell.

As the sun descended in the sky, a golden glow sparkled along the rippling surface of the river. The ship seemed to glide effortlessly over this gilded surface. A beam of sunlight caught on something shiny, high on the stern of the demon ship. It must have been the sparkle of well-oiled chain mail or a polished helm. Segrim screwed up his eyes, which could no longer see clearly over such a great distance. An imposing figure stood at the stern rail of the ship, holding casually on to a halliard that ran up into the rigging. For a moment Segrim was convinced that it was the Templar, and that the man was staring directly at him with those crazy green eyes of his. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the apparition was past. Segrim shuddered, turning away from the river and its traffic. He needed to get to London as soon as possible and arrange his passage to the safety of his estate near Oxford.

Falconer rose early the next day. Despite his dismissal of the importance of his possible debate with Ralph Cornish, he could not stop his brain from scurrying back and forth over arguments and ideas. He had sat through Thomas’s simple disputes of Vesperies the night before, after which it had been too late to return to Saphira’s house. He regretted the omission at the time but was determined to support his favourite student as he took his final steps to becoming a master of the university. The boy was on the verge of his final test. Boy? Thomas Symon was a young man in his twenties, and far more level-headed than Falconer had been at that age. He had thrown up his studies for a life on the roads and merchant routes of Europe, sometimes earning his keep as a mercenary soldier. It had only been the recollection of the encouragement given him by a certain Franciscan friar that had lured him back to learning. Roger Bacon had been teaching at Oxford when Falconer first arrived and had shown him what a good brain he had. His yearnings to see the world, though, had torn him away from the man later dubbed Doctor Mirabilis. But the bond had always remained. Falconer had eventually settled down to study at the University of Bologna, only to return to Oxford in 1250.