Falconer's Trial (3 page)

He could not believe that twenty-two years had passed since that fateful day. But scrubbing his fingers through his greying locks and feeling the natural tonsure that was growing atop his skull, convinced him that time was indeed passing. It did not seem seven years since Thomas Symon had arrived in Oxford in the middle of a particularly nasty set of murders. But today he would complete his studies and become a master himself. He would have his Inception into the university. And Falconer would encounter Ralph Cornish. He grinned at the thought of Ralph Cornish thinking he could ambush Thomas with his disputations, merely to humiliate William himself. Ralph’s tenet was that, if the student was shown to be foolish, then the mentor must be also. But what Ralph did not know was that Falconer had prepared a surprise for him that had nothing to do with cold intellect. Ralph would be caught like a rabbit in a trap. Falconer looked at the long paper tube lying amidst the jumble on his work table. He tapped it tentatively with a finger and grinned like a naughty little boy.

Morning in Oxford that day was beginning exactly as any other day in the town, except for Sunday, of course. The sun had barely begun to warm the streets before the sellers of fish and meat began to open the shutters of their narrow-fronted shops. Long before being a university town, Oxford had been the marketplace for the region. A crossroads of trade. In fact, the main streets of Oxford were like four arms of a great cross, apparently lying on its side from east to west. It defined the shape of the town. These unusually broad avenues were filled with shops, each with its own customary site on the cross’s arms. A traveller entering from the east would stroll past the pig-market, kept close to the edge of town, then wood-merchants, purveyors of earthenware, gloves, bread and dairy produce. From the south another traveller passed first the firewood sellers, then fishmongers, tanners, faggot sellers until he passed the crossroads and encountered the corn-merchants below the north gate. Here the impressive gate, stoutly built because there was no protection from the marsh and rivers on this side, housed the Bocardo. The town’s prison.

It was as though the sun had stirred an ants’ nest with its rays. Townspeople, intent on the business of the day, came scurrying out of the narrow streets that linked the broad avenues. And from the vennel, or passage, set in the narrow frontage of each house, emerged the shopkeepers and metal-beaters, ready for the arrival of their life’s-blood. Those with money to spend.

Saphira Le Veske was an early riser normally, but last night she had been awake almost till dawn. So the daily noise of Oxford’s market beginning did little to rouse her from her stupor. She stirred languorously in the warmth of her bed, and wondered if William had come to her back door last night only to find her not at home. A momentary regret at missing their assignation crossed her mind. But then she began to mull over what she had learned from Samson. She had not been joking when she had told William that she was learning about poisons. That was the dangerous knowledge that the old man had led her through last night and on into the early hours. She had exhausted Samson and herself with her eagerness to learn. She once again pictured the scene.

Samson had cautiously opened his door in response to her knock, his lined face peering out. The grizzled locks, hanging either side of his old face, gave him the look of the very Devil incarnate. But his strong visage and sparkling eyes did not correspond to the reserved manner that defined the man. And few outside the Jews who lived in Oxford knew of his secret skills, not only in medicines but also in poisons. If the Christians in whose midst he lived guessed at this knowledge, he would have been singled out for special attention and, even worse, persecution. So he lived a secret life inside a secretive community. He was getting old now, however, and Saphira hated the idea of his knowledge dying with him. She had begun to mine that fund of information, and the night was going to be about poisons.

Samson pulled her in by her arm and slammed the heavy oaken door closed behind him. He dexterously slid a wooden bolt across the back of the door; only then did he speak.

‘Saphira. Welcome. Come with me.’

He crooked a finger and trotted off down the dark passageway, his black robes billowing in his wake. Saphira, who knew his odd ways, smiled and followed her new master. The room at the back of the house was like her own, at least on the surface. A kitchen with a large open fire dominated one wall, and in the centre of the room stood a well-worn table for preparing vegetables and meats. But that was where the resemblance ended. The table was not set up to accommodate Jewish dietary laws, nor any other form of food preparation. Instead, its surface was covered with pots and jars. Strange aromas filled the kitchen, coming mainly from the pot that bubbled over the fire. Samson had hurried over to it and was stirring gently.

‘Forgive me, child, for being so abrupt, but the concoction needs my full attention.’

Saphira smiled coyly at being called a child and even found herself blushing a little. This old man indeed made her feel once more like a child learning its alphabet. Except he was teaching her ways of poisoning people. He pointed to the brew on the fire.

‘Albertus Magnus himself wrote down this recipe. It is arsenic boiled in milk and can be used to kill flies. He also recommends a mixture of white lime, opium and black hellebore painted on the walls to the same purpose. This preparation…’ He took one of the jars from the table and lifted the lid, showing it to Saphira. ‘. . . This is the herb henbane which Pliny says can be used to cure earache. Though he does warn it can cause mental disorders.’

Saphira peered in the pot and went to touch the contents. Samson cautioned her.

‘Beware. Four leaves only shall induce the sleep of drunkenness from which you may never awake.’

Saphira had found herself wanting to know more. And more. Until the lecture had lasted into the early hours of the morning. Finally, Samson had fallen asleep over the big kitchen table and she had quietly let herself out of his house, stepping over the unseasonal frost that coated the cobbled street. Now, she lay enveloped in the warmth of a thick bearskin and played with the names she had learned.

‘Mercury, gypsum, copper, iron, lapis lazuli, arsenic sublimate, lead.’

These were all powerful, strong words with powerful effects. But she preferred the names of the herbs and insects. She lay back with her eyes closed and recited her lethal catechism.

‘Usnea, hellebore, bryony, nux vomica… serpentary… cantharides.’

And the most evocative of them all.

‘Cateputria.’

THREE

T
he interior of St Mary’s Church was alive with the excitement of the moment. Twenty or thirty students were incepting today; they were at last becoming Masters of the great University of Oxford after seven years of study, disputation and reading. Far from being a solemn occasion, it was a lively event, and loud voices echoed into the vaulted ceiling of the church, which stood metaphorically at the centre of the university as it did physically in the town. A whole day had passed since Falconer had missed his assignation with Saphira, and he hoped she didn’t think he was deliberately ignoring her. She surely understood that his students came first, and the previous day had been spent teaching and organizing the rowdy events that would follow Inception. Looking around him now at the uninhibited behaviour of some, it seemed that many clerks had already started consuming plentiful supplies of wine and ale. Even before they were incepted.

Falconer had to elbow his way unceremoniously through the throng of excited students, and their supporters and masters. He was looking for Thomas Symon, though he was keeping a weather eye for his adversary Ralph Cornish too. He didn’t doubt that Ralph would see him first. Despite having a piercing stare that scared many of his young protégés nearly to death, he was very short-sighted and could not see far without eyeglasses. Though he avoided the finery indulged in by most other regent masters, especially on such a day as today, he was himself a tall man and stood out in a crowd.

All around him were masters bedecked in cappas or sleeveless copes bordered with many different types of fur. This they wore over a simple tunic, the colour of which ranged from black to purple and in some cases a less than sombre scarlet. And all wore the square biretta on their head. William was dressed differently. He wore the same black robe he was garbed in every day, its edges fraying and green with mould. Normally, he would be bareheaded too. But today he had given in to formality and wore a simple black pileus over his greying, unruly locks. It amused him that it closely resembled the cap worn by many of his Jewish friends.

‘Master Falconer.’

He felt a hand on his arm and turned around. It was Thomas, his face alight with the excitement of the moment.

‘Did you see? I have knelt before the chancellor and taken my oaths. All I need now do is to deliver my final disputation in the schools.’

In truth, Falconer had missed his student’s presentation to Chancellor Thomas Bek. He had lingered too long under the window of Saphira Le Veske’s bedroom, hoping to see her rise. But the shutter had remained firmly closed. By the time he had given up his quest and arrived at St Mary’s, he had found himself at the back of the throng, and Thomas had already been presented to the chancellor. He did not want to disappoint the youth, however.

‘Yes. You performed well. I am proud of you. And I look forward to your final disputation.’

His piercing blue eyes sparkled and he winked at Thomas Symon. Both were aware what was in store at the schools, though only Falconer knew the full facts. He gingerly touched the money pouch that hung at his waist, ensuring his little secret weapon was still there. Then Falconer took out his eyeglasses and held them to his face. The lenses had been carefully ground to his own specifications and mounted recently in a frame with folding arms that he could lodge on the top of his ears. But he was often too embarrassed to wear the heavy object as he thought it gave him the appearance of a dim-witted owl. A quick scan of the church, however, soon revealed Ralph Cornish. He was lurking on the opposite side of the church, partially in the shadows of the side aisle. He was talking animatedly to the chancellor, but as though he sensed Falconer’s eyes on him, he suddenly turned. He stared hard at Falconer, a grim but determined look on his face, then continued speaking to Bek.

William did not seek to provoke him at this stage and took Thomas’s arm. The two friends, mentor and former student, strolled out of the church and up the narrow lane by St Mary’s western end. This brought them to the rooms that served as schools for the students of Oxford. Here, Thomas Symon would deliver his first lecture as master before the inevitable revelries began. Without looking back, Falconer knew that Cornish was following them, together with a gaggle of students and regent masters who had heard that an interesting debate was soon to be had.

The world of the university was an inbred community, where petty intellectual differences meant a great deal to those who devoted their lives to arguing the proverbial matter of angels on pinheads. Reputations stood or fell on the ability to outmanoeuvre one’s fellow masters during convoluted arguments that meant nothing to the average citizen of the town the university infested. Sometimes more than reputations were concerned. If heresies were sniffed in the air, a master’s very life might be forfeit. Falconer himself had sailed close to the wind on more than one occasion. He prayed that this time he would not give in to temptation and do the same again. The device in his purse was there to save him from himself.

Falconer rented the ground floor of an anonymous tenement in School Street, on the corner of St Mildred’s Lane. It stood opposite Black Hall, where ironically Ralph Cornish governed a group of well-regulated clerks, who were rarely seen to misbehave on the streets of Oxford at night. If any one of them did, they were soon banished from Cornish’s glowering gaze. He also recruited his wards from wealthy families, earning a pretty income in addition to the living he made as a priest somewhere locally. Falconer guessed that Cornish’s annual remuneration far exceeded his own from his petty charge of six shillings per annum for each student. But despite his own poverty, Falconer had secretly funded Thomas’s revels.

He knew the youth was himself from a poor family, and his backer was an impoverished clergyman who liked to help clever boys improve themselves. Henry Ely, though, could afford to help the youth no more. Symon would have to stand on his own two feet from now on. Together, Thomas and Falconer crossed the threshold of the tenement school to be greeted by a gaggle of cheering clerks who had got there before them. Someone had stacked the long benches that normally filled up the floor along one wall to make more space. The single piece of furniture left in place was the high desk where the master sat. Falconer indicated it with a sweep of his arm, and Thomas sat behind it nervously. But then Thomas recalled his mentor’s informal approach to teaching, which he had copied on a number of occasions when he had given lectures to younger students as part of his training. More confidently, he stood up and stepped to one side of the desk as he had often seen William do. Like his mentor, he would not have a barrier between him and his students.

He scanned the eager and happy faces, noting that the room was packed tight as even more soberly-clad clerks and masters squeezed into the room. He could not see Ralph Cornish, but William Falconer stood head and shoulders above most of the people in the room. He saw the encouraging look on his mentor’s face and began his uncontroversial lecture on the interpretation of Aristotle’s teaching by his own namesake, Thomas of Aquino.

In a day and a half, Segrim had only managed to travel as far as the small market town of Berkhamsted before heavy rains cut his journey short. The speed of his journey had been impaired by the necessity of keeping an eye on Osbert. Humphrey now found that he couldn’t shake the Londoner off, even if he had wanted to. The skinny man from Wapping had first convinced Humphrey to entrust the conveying of his oak chest to him. The chest held weapons, heavy chain mail and a metal helm, along with extra clothes and a few trinkets from the Holy Lands. So the trust did not go further than Segrim’s eyesight. He had watched carefully as the chest had been roped to the back of a packhorse, which Osbert then insisted he lead by its halter. But it was then Osbert’s contention that for him to walk, while the knight rode, would delay Segrim unconscionably. His master would have to hire a horse for his servant and Osbert knew just where to get a bargain. So now, Osbert sat himself upon a nag almost as scrawny as he was. But he sat on it proudly. Of course, it was Segrim who had been persuaded to pay for it all.