Falconer's Trial (5 page)

‘Mistress Segrim, how nice to see you.’

Ann Segrim turned around, a warm smile lighting up her face, until she saw who it was had spoken to her. Her smile froze and her blue eyes turned the grey colour of a well-tempered sword.

‘I wish I could say the same to you, Mistress…’

‘Le Veske.’

‘Ah, yes. Le Veske. That name is Jewish, is it not?’

Saphira’s heart sank at the same rate as her resolve hardened. She had so wanted to be pleasant to this woman, who had clearly once been very close to William. But the veiled slur had put an end to all that.

‘Yes, the name is Jewish, and a very old and respectable name too.’

Ann Segrim ignored the retort and looked over at Robert the spicer. He could hardly hide the smirk that had crept over his face. He was obviously enjoying the discomfiture of the Jew.

‘If you could send the raisins and chestnuts to Botley, I would be obliged. I am to celebrate the return of my husband from Outremer any day now.’

Robert bowed and wrung his hands.

‘We are all glad of his safe return, mistress. The goods will be delivered tomorrow.’

Without sparing another look for Saphira, Ann Segrim swept out of the shop, her grinning homunculus of a servant in her wake. Margery, however, managed a look at Saphira. It was a gaze of malevolent triumph.

As chance would have it, two men saw Ann Segrim leave the spicer’s shop. William Falconer and Thomas Symon, on their way back to Aristotle’s Hall, were crossing the High Street just as the incident in the spicer’s reached its culmination. Thomas saw Ann first and pointed her out to his mentor, knowing her as his close friend. He was blithely unaware of the recent shift in Falconer’s affections.

‘Look, it’s Mistress Segrim. Shall I call out to her?’

Falconer hesitated, restraining his young friend. And it was lucky he did, for immediately after Ann’s hurried appearance, followed by the servant, Margery, another figure emerged from the shop. It was a flustered Saphira Le Veske, who was staring with apparent anger at the retreating shape in the billowing blue robe. Falconer groaned.

‘I think not, Thomas. Take it from me, we would do well to avoid both those ladies at the present.’

Thomas shot a puzzled look at Falconer, not knowing the shapely red-haired woman. But the regent master did not seem ready to offer him an explanation. For his own part, William did not think he could supply one anyway. Dealing with two strong-willed women left him with the feeling that celibacy was not such a bad option after all. He took Thomas firmly by the arm and dragged him down a narrow lane in order to avoid being seen going in the same direction as the two ladies. Though neither woman, in their present mood, would have been likely to have noticed Falconer, even if he had stood before them. Saphira, grim-faced, stood in the doorway of the spicer’s shop until Ann Segrim had disappeared from sight in the direction of Carfax. Then she walked briskly back to her lodgings in Fish Street, and a cold repast.

Ann, at first, set on returning home to Botley through the little river gate below the castle, but changed her mind once she was in the network of marsh and streams outside the town walls. Where she was inclined to go now first required her to get rid of her shadow, Margery.

‘We shall go to Godstow Nunnery now, Margery.’

The stocky servant’s face fell.

‘The… er… nunnery, madam? Why is that?’

Ann smiled to herself. She knew that Margery had an irrational fear of being locked away for life in a nunnery. That somehow her employer would trick her into entering the cloister, from where she would never be allowed to return. Ann continued to play on that fear, knowing that she would thereby free herself of Margery’s suffocating presence. The little monkey-face took her job of keeping an eye on her mistress on behalf of her absent master too seriously for Ann’s liking.

‘Oh, no reason, Margery. Wouldn’t you like to see inside the nunnery? See how pleasant the life is there?’

‘P–pleasant?’ Margery’s face was as white as freshly washed linen at the idea of entering a nunnery, even momentarily. ‘No, madam. I think I had better return to the manor. Old Sekston will need some help in the kitchen garden. He is getting so frail now, he can’t carry all the vegetables by himself.’

Soon, Margery was scurrying away down the road to Botley and Ann was left to make her way alone to Godstow. Picking the meandering dry path between the many streams that infested the meadows north and west of Oxford’s walls was difficult. But eventually she came to the rickety wooden bridge that led to the gatehouse of the nunnery. Ann had come to like the prioress who ran the nunnery with an iron fist, though it had not been so when first she had met her. Peter Bullock, the constable of Oxford town, had asked Ann to stay at the nunnery after one of its inmates had been found dead. Lady Gwladys had agreed to the subterfuge reluctantly, and had been quite obstructive. But after Ann had winkled out the truth of the mysterious death, she had softened in her attitude to the calm and clever Ann Segrim. They had met on several occasions since then, especially after Sir Humphrey had left for the Holy Lands. Ann had needed someone to confide her troubles in and the prioress had obliged. Even though Gwladys’s own rules, strictly applied, made it difficult for a more permanent friendship to blossom.

Before Gwladys’s time as prioress, the nunnery had been lax, and men had slipped in and out with ease. She had had the bishop’s approval to prevent a nun speaking to anyone without another nun present. And on no account could a nun speak to an Oxford scholar at all for fear of exciting ‘unclean thoughts’. Ann had always smiled wryly at that particular injunction, bearing in mind the thoughts that William aroused in her. Now, with the arrival of Saphira Le Veske, she was less amused by the idea.

At the gatehouse, she presented herself to the gatekeeper, Hal Coke. He was a wrinkle-faced, sour old man, who had lost a great deal in income when his trade of passing tokens and messages from scholars to nuns had been cut off. Ann had been surprised that Gwladys had kept him on, but in one of her rare expressions of humour, she had said the penance was good for his soul. Coke saw Ann and slowly pulled himself up from his stool, setting aside his jug of watered beer.

‘Mistress. You wish to see the Lady Gwladys?’

‘Yes, Master Coke. If you please.’

The gatekeeper mumbled under his breath something to the effect that it didn’t please him to be disturbed at his rest, but what was there to be done. Ann smiled sweetly, pretending not to have heard what he said, and followed him into the outer court of the nunnery. On two sides of this court there stood both St Thomas’s Chapel and the lodgings for a chaplain and priest who assisted the prioress in her duties. On the third, south, side stood the range that led to the inner cloister and the nunnery proper. Coke led her through this door, having used a large key to open it. Inside, Ann marvelled once again at the calm that prevailed. The inner walls of the cloister bore paintings with religious themes on the white plasterwork. Three sides led into houses where the twenty nuns had their quarters. A slender but dominating figure stood at the northern end of the cloister. Sister Gwladys had anticipated Ann’s arrival it seemed, as she always did.

She had one of those smiles that was a result of the corners of her mouth turning down rather than up. But Ann knew she was pleased to see her, nevertheless. At her shoulder stood the familiar figure of Sister Hildegard, who conformed precisely to the nunnery’s requirement of a companion when any nun spoke to an outsider – that of being ‘an ancient and discreet nun’.

Gwladys took a step forward and raised a hand as if in a benediction.

‘Welcome, Mistress Segrim. I am glad you came. I have something quite disturbing that I need to discuss with you.’

Sir Humphrey Segrim guzzled yet another jug of the cheap ale and settled into the cosy corner he had established for himself in the nameless tavern in Berkhamsted. He had given the innkeeper the impression that he was a knight returning from the Holy Wars in Outremer, where he had experienced hard times and cruel battles. In fact, he had got no further than the island of Cyprus, once ruled by King Richard, but now in the hands of the French Lusignan family. King Hugh of Cyprus was an obscure offshoot of that family, who also laid claim to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, though this was disputed. Prince Edward, son of Henry of Winchester, was trying to revive the stumbling Holy War, which had been slowed down by the death of Louis of France. So when Segrim and the Templar had arrived at Famagusta harbour, they found that Edward had already set sail for Acre with a handful of his followers. The knights of Cyprus had refused to fight on the mainland due, they claimed, to a conflict in feudal laws. The Templar cursed them for cowards and immediately sought passage for himself to Outremer. Segrim circumspectly chose to see what developed over the water first and stayed in Famagusta. Besides, he had become uneasy about his travelling companion. There had been the strange incident in Viterbo in March of that year that had worried Segrim. And still worried him now.

He was about to call for another jug of ale, when the door of the inn burst open and a man in rough clothes soaked to the skin rushed in. His face looked grim and the pallor of his skin was made all the more marked by his black hair that was plastered down by the heavy rain.

‘He’s dead! Lord Richard is dead!’

A cry of horror was wrenched from the lips of all who, until that moment, had been noisily carousing one with the other. The innkeeper hustled over to the messenger of the bad news and thrust a jug into his hand. The uneasy silence that then descended on the inn was only gradually broken by a growing murmur of worry. All those present depended for their livelihood on the lord of the manor who had just apparently died. Segrim guessed it had to be Richard of Cornwall himself, brother to the King of England and lately elected King of Germany. He leaned towards a sturdy yeoman who sat near him.

‘Is it Richard, Earl Cornwall, he speaks of?’

The red-faced farmer nodded sagely.

‘Yes. And mark my words, there is evil afoot here.’

‘Evil? Did he not fall ill with the half-dead disease last December? Though I was abroad, I heard he was paralyzed down his right side and had lost the power of speech. Was not his death inevitable?’

The yeoman shook his head vigorously.

‘Not so soon as this. It was said he was much recovered and paying attention to his affairs as though he were whole again. No, his death, coming so soon after his nephew’s, who was in his care at the time, is a cause for concern.’

Segrim knew what the man was referring to. Prince Edward’s eldest son, John of Winchester, had died quite young in August of last year, while in the custody of his Uncle Richard. Now Richard also was dead. But still Segrim shook his head and turned away from his informant, unconvinced of any suggestion of foul play. Death was a normal part of living, and young and old succumbed equally from perfectly natural causes. Life, after all, was a harsh and precarious affair. He buried his face in the ale jug again. It was only later that something occurred to make Segrim wonder if the farmer had not hit upon the truth after all.

It happened after he had retired to his room with a sore head from too much ale, and aching bones from the persistent damp. He was staring glumly out of the unglazed window, holding the sacking aside that was the only protection from the gusting wind and rain. The bulk of the castle opposite looked even gloomier in the darkness. More so, now that it housed the sad presence within its walls of the body of Richard, King of Germany. Suddenly, Segrim was aware of a sound being carried on the wind. A noise that became clearer as it got closer. It finally seemed to be coming from the narrow lane below the window at which he stood. It was the sound of chain mail and sword clanking together, accompanied by the gentle creaking of a horse harness. The sound was restrained but clear, as if whoever was passing by chose to do so secretively. Segrim leaned out of the window cautiously and peered down. He saw a small group of armoured men on horseback passing below. They were led by the robust and upright figure of the very Templar he had been fleeing for weeks. The man even seemed to sense Segrim’s presence, as he lifted his cold, calm gaze up to Segrim’s window. Sir Humphrey ducked back inside the room, his legs giving way underneath him. He slumped down on to the rush-strewn floor in horror.

FIVE

T
he following morning Ann Segrim was still mulling over her conversation with Sister Gwladys the previous day. The prioress had been reluctant to divulge what was disturbing her at first. So Ann had begun by confessing her angry outburst in the spicer’s shop. Gwladys had listened impassively, but Hildegard had hung on to her every word. The ancient nun professed to be deaf, fulfilling her role as chaperone perfectly in the nunnery. But Ann knew otherwise. Hildegard was a fund of knowledge. Her ears were as sharp as anyone’s, and her store of gossip greater for the fact that all her fellow nuns thought her deaf. Because of it, they spoke unguardedly in her presence. Even though she was aware of the deception, Ann still did not mind speaking frankly.

‘I was cold and uncharitable to the woman.’

Gwladys made her strange smile, where the outer edges of her lips turned down rather than up.

‘And you did this because she is licentious? With a man of your… acquaintance?’

Ann truly did not know if Saphira Le Veske had stolen William away from her using the pleasures of her body. But she knew that look in his eye. It was one she had not been able to arouse. She swallowed hard and nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘Then coldness is appropriate to someone who does not live by God’s laws. But charity is another matter. Does not the sinner deserve our charity so that we may bring them back to God?’

Ann spoke through thin, tight lips.

‘Even when the person concerned is a Jew?’

She heard Hildegard hiss behind her. But Gwladys seemed unconcerned by the revelation.

‘Even Jews have been known to convert. But enough of that. Tell me, does your husband return soon from his sacred duties in Outremer?’