[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (18 page)

Eighteen

Peter Bullock could tell the Templar knight was feeling constricted by his temporary incarceration in the house in Pennyfarthing Lane. He was a powerfully built man of around forty with broad shoulders, and a full beard like most Templars.

His lined face suggested he had been in the Holy Land, where he would no doubt have patrolled along dusty roads protecting pilgrims from marauding tribesmen. His calling meant he was more used to violent action in the field. Now he was older, and mastering the task of getting what he wanted by negotiation, not force of arms. He was finding it difficult, hence his restless pacing. Bullock stood quietly in the doorway, awaiting the response to his request to inform Falconer what was happening here. The Templar stopped his pacing, and glared at Bullock.

‘Very well, Sergeant. You can tell him who it was he found in the walls of that building. Explain to him that there was a lot of money in his possession, which was lost twenty years ago, and is not now to be found. Tell him that the Jews were responsible, and if he is looking anywhere he should look in their direction.’

Bullock grimaced. ‘He will not like that. He has many friends amongst the Jews, and he believes in their honesty.’
 

The Templar snorted, and recommenced his pacing. ‘Then it is about time he learned the truth. And if he finds the money, you can tell me. And I will deal with it. Now you may go, Sergeant Bullock.’

The constable nodded dutifully, acknowledging his one-time allegiance to the Templar Order, and left the room. As he descended the stairs, he could hear the creak of timbers as the knight continued his restless walking to and fro. In the street, he looked at the house next door, where Prior Thomas had sworn the slaughter of an innocent child had taken place.

He could not wipe from his mind the thought that the dark and crumbling exterior had an ominous appearance. The drab windows on the upper floor were like two dull, blank eyes staring out of a yellowing skull. For a moment he imagined he heard an eerie noise, as if the child was moaning over his fate. But .when he stopped to listen, standing silently in the lane, he hrard nothing. The house was dumb.

He shrugged his shoulders, and walked off towards the castle, where his position as constable gave him lodging. He pondered how he was going to approach William Falconer with his new information without further estranging him. As his bowed form turned the comer into Fish Street, a nervous pair of eyes followed him from behind the windows of the accursed house.

Jehozadok was preparing himself for the ritual duties on the Day of Atonement. Duties he might be performing for the last time as Oxford’s rabbi. So he did not welcome an interruption. However, Falconer had been insistent, so he had conceded defeat, and now welcomed the regent master into his chamber.

If truth were told, his preparations had tired him more than he imagined, and he was glad to rest. As he leaned back in his chair to ease his back, he was aware, despite his blindness, that William was rather agitated. He could hear him squirming in his chair. Still a little annoyed with Falconer for disturbing him, he let the master suffer in silence for a while before speaking.

‘William, what is it that brings you here that is so urgent?’ More squirming. ‘Do you know where Deudone is hiding? Or where Covele has gone? I will understand if you do not wish to tell me. After all, in the present circumstances why would you trust any... Christian?’

Jehozadok maintained a solemn face, though he was smiling inwardly. Falconer was so oversensitive concerning the feelings of his Jewish friends. Did he not realize that years - centuries - of Jews living in the midst of Christians gave them a protective skin the toughness of cowhide? The contumely still rankled but it was a bearable burden. And the idea that Falconer was worried Jehozadok could not trust him was plainly ridiculous.

Unfortunately, he knew where neither man was, and told Falconer so.

‘Has he been up to his usual tricks? Covele, I mean, not Deudone.’

‘What sort of tricks are those?’

Jehozadok paused.

‘Let me explain. We believe that the only place where it is possible to carry out sacrifices is the Temple in Jerusalem.

It would be a sin anywhere else. The last place appointed by… Ha Shem -’ the traditionalist in Jehozadok meant he avoided uttering the word God, using the expression The Name instead - ‘was the Temple, and that was destroyed more than a thousand years ago.’

Falconer felt cold at Jehozadok’s talk of sacrifice. He had not heard his friend mention the practice before, and it brought to mind the images described by Thomas Brassyngton and the priest Simon. He wondered where Jehozadok was taking him, if sacrifice was not practised any more.

‘And Covele?’

‘He is one of those who believes that in the absence of the proper place, anywhere will suffice. That is why he is an outcast.’

‘So he could have been making a... sacrifice the other night.’

Jehozadok frowned, acutely aware of the hesitation in Falconer’s voice.

‘Is this to do with the lies spread around that caused the riot? Surely you do not believe them after all this time, William?’

Falconer was nonplussed, and not a little embarrassed.

But if Covele the Jew was an outcast with his own people, might he not do things which would horrify others? And he had been present twenty years ago when the Templar priest was murdered. If he had been seen by the priest committing some outlandish act, might he not have killed the Templar? According to Deudone, he had condoned the boy’s attack on the priest. Perhaps he had relished the idea of the boy doing his dirty work for him. An innocent getting rid of the very man he wanted dead would probably appeal to his evil nature. But where did the recent killing of Wilfrid fit in? Had he too witnessed something? Was it the very slaughter that Brassyngton accused Covele of? Falconer’s mind was in turmoil. If Covele had killed in order to keep his actions secret, then they must be far worse than some transgression of Jewish law. But Falconer couldn’t believe in the truth of child sacrifice, could he?

Jehozadok sat quietly as Falconer’s brain spun, his unseeing eyes appearing to gaze off at some distant object of desire.

Falconer could detect nothing in them to refute or confirm what he imagined. Then Jehozadok sighed.

‘I think it is a shame Covele has returned. It is perhaps twenty years since we saw him. Some say he has been seen over the years, always dressed sumptuously and spending unwisely. They claim to have spotted him in Bristol, in Canterbury, or even in London. Personally, I doubt all the rumours. Where would an outcast like Covele get a fortune in cash?’

Falconer could not dispel from his mind the thought of the ransom money said to have disappeared along with the Templar priest.

The work on the new college was progressing depressingly slowly. The rain had ceased, but the site was waterlogged, and Richard Thorpe surveyed it with premonitions of disaster.

Twenty years ago might have been presaged as the End Times, but the present situation spoke of truly desperate times. It was easy to imagine the world engulfed by another flood. All the footings for the building were nothing but muddy pools of water in which he could see his own gloomy reflection. A passage from Revelation came into his mind unbidden.

‘From his mouth the serpent spewed a flood of water after the woman to sweep her away with its spate.’

‘But Revelation goes on to say, "But the earth came to her rescue and opened its mouth and swallowed the river." ‘ Thorpe turned round, startled by the voice. He had not known that he had spoken aloud the lines from Revelation which were bouncing around his skull. The speaker was the meddlesome regent master Falconer, who now seemed intent on further spoiling his day. Thorpe could see by the piercing look in his eyes that he was determined to extract information, but perhaps now he would be willing to give it.

‘Let’s go and sit in my lodge. At least then, if it starts to rain again, we will be in shelter. And we will not need to seek rescue like the woman in Revelation.’

Thorpe grinned sheepishly, and pointed the way over to his sturdy thatched shelter, which doubled as his office and dry workspace when he was carving stone. There were two low stools, and the men perched on them, Falconer a little uneasily.

He stared at his muddy boots for a while, and then began.

‘I am endeavouring to reconstruct the days of the year 1250 when our.., mutual friend died.’ He indicated the demolished house where the skeleton had been uncovered. Thorpe shrugged his shoulders.

‘I cannot help you there. Twenty years ago I was a lowly apprentice at my calling, and working all over the country to gain experience. I don’t recall ever working in Oxford.’

‘Yes, but you can tell me who Dame Elia bought the row of houses from that you have demolished. I know when I asked last time, you probably thought it was none of my business, but I can assure you that it would be very helpful to know who it was. You see, I thought the site originally belonged to Lumbard the Jew, but Jehozadok - the rabbi - told me he sold it to raise money for the ransom that was being collected in 1250.’

Falconer had only just discovered this at their recent meeting. And it confirmed that the Templar did have money with him, because Jehozadok could verify that Lumbard paid it to him. What he could not recall was who had bought the building site twenty years ago, only to sell it now. Falconer hoped Thorpe could solve the matter, or he would have to travel north to Bletchington to speak to the formidable Dame Elia Bassett. Thorpe gazed at Falconer briefly, and then nodded his head as if coming to an inner agreement with himself.

‘The seller of the row of houses was Sir Gilbert de Bois of Tubney Manor just to the south of here. He got a substantial amount for it, I understand.’

So for the second time, Sir Gilbert came to Falconer’s notice.

What with this and the suspicious death of his servant girl, he could perhaps justify a journey to Tubney Manor on the following day. He thanked Thorpe for his candour, and as the dull and cloudy day came to a close, he made his way back to Aristotle’s Hall by the back lanes.

The main thoroughfares were already awash, and the filth from the foul-water sluice that ran down the middle of these major streets was spreading over the whole roadway. The back lanes were little better, but at least passers-by were not risking being splashed by a horse and cart as it trundled through the mess on the main roads. Most people, men or women, picked up the skirts of their robe to ensure it would only be their footwear that got dirty. Carelessly, Falconer let his shabby black robe drag in the mud.

In the hall where he acted as landlord and protector of a gaggle of students, the communal fire was burning merrily.

The upper reaches were wreathed in smoke, but at least the clerks who huddled close to the fire were warm and dry. Until, that is, the precious reserves of wood ran out. After which Falconer doubted that anyone would find dry kindling in the whole of England. He stood for a while by the fire to warm up. Though his own solar had a fireplace, he rarely made a fire in it, frugally relying on the heat of the main hall. His students seemed unusually taciturn tonight, and after exchanging cursory greetings with them, he mounted the stairs to his solar. On opening the door, he was confronted by a familiar, if presently unwelcome figure.

Peter Bullock turned round from petting Balthazar the owl, to face his old friend. Both men felt a little awkward, as the mood of their recent parting had not been cordial. It was Bullock who spoke first.

‘William. I’ve been thinking.’

Falconer refrained from the obvious rejoinder - he didn’t believe Peter had been thinking properly for some time. But he knew even a jocular comment would be taken wrongly, and kept his mouth shut. Bullock, taking his silence as encouragement, pressed on.

‘You deserve an explanation for my... reluctance to have you involved in the death of the Templar priest, and of the mason, Wilfrid Southo.’

Falconer was surprised that Bullock knew the calling of the man whose skeletal remains had been found in the walls. He thought only he had learned that by dint of hard questioning.

Bullock saw the look on Falconer’s face, and for once in his life felt the glow of triumph in knowing more than the regent master.

‘Oh yes, and I know his name as well. He was called Michael le Saux.’

‘Peter, how do you know all this, when I have only just managed to learn his profession and - if it was the same man - what he was about twenty years ago?’

Bullock was enjoying this. Turning the tables on Falconer was a rare treat, and he decided to keep his source of knowledge secret just a little longer.

‘Oh, you mean the ransom money he was collecting for the King so that Louis of France could be returned? The money that no doubt was the reason for his murder? Yes, yes, I know all that already.’

It dawned on Falconer that the constable was enjoying himself at his expense. And knew that if he held his peace, Bullock would not be able to keep whatever secrets he had to himself. He feigned indifference.

‘I am sure you do. Now, if you will excuse me, I have lessons to prepare. And my students are a voracious lot, whose supper will not wait.’

Bullock squinted suspiciously at Falconer, suddenly not sure if he was still in charge of this situation.