[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (28 page)

‘Did you think he was stealing from your fellow workers?’

‘No sir!’ Trewoon’s quick reply smacked of uncertainty to Falconer. As if Trewoon himself suspected his friend of theft.

And he recalled the matter of the missing ring from the old bones, which had turned up on the finger of Laurence de Bern~re. It all fitted in place suddenly. The Templar had got Peter Pawlyn to look out for things that would identify the body. And then perhaps later had asked him to find something more specific. Something that had been missing for a long time. If the Templar priest’s murderer had caught him close to discovering this item, then there was good reason to kill him.

‘John, do you know anything about the time twenty years ago when the houses you have just torn down were being built?’

Trewoon smiled widely.

‘Of course I do, master. I helped build them.’

The day after Pentecost, May 1250

John was newly apprenticed to the mason’s craft, and he was already finding it difficult to understand. Given his size and build, he knew he was more than capable of lifting and carrying the timbers and stones that were required to build these new stone houses in Oxford. That the man paying for the work was a Jew mattered little to him. He knew they were said to be responsible for Christ’s death, but he couldn’t see that the cheerful, bearded man he saw clambering all over the mess on site had anything to do with that. He always had a good word for John, and even gave him a small coin when he challenged him to lift a massive stone block, and lost the bet. No, his strength would never let him down. But his brains inevitably would. Lessons concerning the square of the material world, the circle of the spiritual world, and their synthesis in a column, flew over his head. A column just held things up, didn’t it? Now it appeared that the Jew had sold the site and some local squire was in charge. John suspected he would not find life as amusing as under Master Lumbard the Jew.

Sighing, he began carrying the timbers that would make up the scaffolding. As the stone wall was nearly finished, it would allow John and his fellow apprentices to work on the timber frame of the upper floor, and fill in the wall cavity with rubble from the site.

‘John, hurry with that pole. Can’t you do anything right?’ The curly-headed apprentice was always on John’s back.

Though he had the same lowly status as John, he was three years into his seven-year apprenticeship. And much more adept at it, apparently. So he bossed around the other apprentices, and chose his most biting criticisms especially for John. Some days John felt he could land a good blow on him for his overbearing nature, but he restrained himself.

‘Coming, Dickon. If I hold it at the bottom you can lash the top to the cross beam.’

The curly-headed apprentice sneered down at John from his perch on the new wall.

‘Don’t you go telling me what to do, Trewoon. We don’t want your brain bursting, do we?’

The other apprentices heard this jest, and they all laughed.

Blushing, John swung the beam upright, landing it perilously close to the other boy’s head. He grinned with quiet satisfaction as Dickon had to dodge out of the way. Before he could complain, though, the journeyman-foreman appeared, and the banter had to cease. The boys toiled hard in the bright sunshine for the rest of the day. But when the work was finished, it was John who was left on top of the wall to clear up, while Dickon sloped off with the two younger apprentices. The older boy appeared to hold sway over them in a way that John did not understand. The force of Dickon’s personality had them running after him like curs following the leader of the pack.

From his perch atop the wall, John could now see them scurrying off somewhere, no doubt to do Dickon’s bidding.

He could also see a tall priest dressed in green striding purposefully down the lane, despite the clouds of lime-mortar powder that turned everything white around the site. Dickon must have recognized him for with a bold pace forward he stopped the priest in his tracks. John was surprised at even Dickon’s temerity. It was not for an apprentice to stand in the way of a high and mighty priest. At first the exchange seemed courteous, but then John heard their voices becoming louder. Dickon got more and more agitated, until the priest placed a gloved hand on his shoulder as if to thrust him aside. Then something odd happened. The priest’s head twitched, and his cap flew off. He pitched forward into Dickon’s arms, his whole body limp as if in death. John’s heart skipped a beat, thinking that Dickon had killed the man. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw two children scampering away across the site, one of them dropping stones from his fist. It must have been one of the stones that had floored the priest.

He scrambled down the scaffolding to chase after the boys, even though he could see the green-garbed priest had already recovered somewhat. He was dusting two patches of white lime mortar off the front of his robe where he had dropped to his knees. Dickon was holding out the dislodged cap, his face red with suppressed anger.

Feast of St Gregory, September 1271

Falconer was pleased that the stone thrown by Deudone had not caused any serious harm to the priest. He could at least clear the young man of any sense of guilt, and for that he was thankful to John Trewoon. But it still left the identity of his murderer masked by the clouds of time.

‘You saw nothing more, John?’

Trewoon looked at Falconer, puzzlement in his eyes.

‘No, master. I ran after the boys, but they knew the lanes better than me. And I lost them. I just went straight back to our lodgings.’ He paused. ‘There was something else, though.’

‘What was that, John?’

The hour was getting late. The rain had not ceased, and the cloud cover meant the evening was not much gloomier than the day had been. The two men still sat beneath the wooden stairs sheltered from the downpour. Even so, several persistent drips of water fell off the steps above them, dampening their clothes. Falconer felt chilled to the bone, but could not do anything that would break the thread of Trewoon’s thoughts.

The giant shifted awkwardly on the barrel, and folded his arms across his chest to conserve the heat of his body. He stared down at his shabby, mud-covered boots.

‘That evening Dickon and the two other apprentices were absent from our lodgings. Nothing was said, but they came back separately, the two younger lads first. They looked scared and excited at the same time. Like they had done something dangerous, something.., wrong. They lay down at one end of the loft, and I heard them whispering to each other for hours. Like they couldn’t calm down and get to sleep. I dozed off before Dickon returned. Though he must have come back in the night as he was there on his bed in the morning.’

‘Was he excited too?’

Trewoon’s brow furrowed.

‘No. That’s what was odd. Where the lads were all worked up still, Dickon was as calm as anything. He had this sort of serene look in his eyes. I thought he’d.., you know.., gained his manhood or something, he seemed so pleased with himself.

But whatever he and those two lads did, it was bad luck.’

‘Why is that, John?’

‘Because I heard both of them died soon after. Accidents do happen on building sites, what with faulty scaffolding and heavy stones being hoisted up and such. But they was marked, I think. Funnily enough, Wilfrid - may his soul be in Heaven - was asking about one of them recently. The one called Walter apparently was his older brother. He had been trying to track down who knew what had happened to him, and to his friend. I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much.’

Falconer’s brain was beginning to whirl.

‘One of the apprentices who worked here when le Saux the priest - was killed died soon after? Along with another? And Wilfrid was asking about the circumstances of their deaths before he too was killed?’

Trewoon nodded glumly.

‘Yes. Maybe I’m just bad luck to whoever I’m around. Look at poor Peter.’

He nodded in the direction of the body up in the loft.

Falconer wondered where Bullock had got to. He had said he would be back quickly with men to remove the body. And arrest Trewoon. He realized he didn’t have much more time to question the man. A thought was beginning to form, and it was an unpleasant one.

‘This Dickon. Did he die too?’

Trewoon smiled wryly.

‘No, of course he didn’t. You saw him only the other day.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes. Dickon is not important enough for him now. He is Master Richard Thorpe.’

Twenty-Seven

Despite the driving rain, a few shops were still open along the High Street, and drenched people were hurriedly purchasing the necessities of daily life, carrying them off to their homes and student halls hidden down the warren of narrow side streets. The master mason strode along at Saphira’s side, apparently impervious to the weather. The rain dripped off his curly locks and ran over the shoulders of his woollen surcoat. Occasionally he would glance at the woman at his side, and smile pleasantly. Soon they passed St Mary’s Church, and Saphira realized they were headed for East Gate. Evening was drawing on, though the dullness of the overcast day meant there was no discernible change in the gloom.

The shops belonging to silversmiths, glovers and such trades stood along this part of the street. While these shops were normally part of the general bustle of the town, in such depressing weather, with their wares not a staple, they were now firmly closed. A flicker of candlelight showed in the upper rooms of some. Otherwise this part of town felt deserted.

Saphira shivered, and drew her cloak more closely around her.

‘Will we find this man, John Trewoon, at his lodgings, Master Thorpe?’

‘I think we might. It is too early for the drinking establishments to be open. And, well, the weather is too bad to be abroad at the moment.’ He paused, and smiled at Saphira. Being a good head taller than she was, he looked down at her. ‘Unless you have a purpose in being out and about, that is.’ Saphira, knowing that William would be close on her heels, nodded her head.

‘This must be done now. Twenty years have passed, and we should not waste another moment.’

‘You are a very determined woman, Madam Le Veske. John Trewoon should be trembling in his boots, despite his size. Though it is as well, perhaps, that I am with you on this occasion.’

Saphira reached out and touched the mason’s brawny, tanned arm briefly. As she replied, there was steel in her voice.

‘I would have no one else with me at this very moment.’ They were soon through East Gate, where the gatekeeper gave them a curious look. Saphira wondered if he remembered her from before, when he had got her down as a whore.

Flitting out of the town at dusk and back in the early hours should not be the habit of a lady. But then, there were not many houses outside the walls on this side of town either. A fact that Saphira was aware of, having hunted down Covele at the Jewish cemetery, which lay outside the gate. She knew the only large building between the walls and the river was the Hospital of St John’s, and she didn’t think that the building workers had their lodgings in this part of town. She turned to Thorpe as they plunged under the darkness of the cemetery trees which overhung the lane.

‘Is this Beaumont, Master Thorpe?’

‘It is out of our way to walk this way to Beaumont, madam. But I will confess I just wanted to show you something before we spoke to John.’ He grasped her arm firmly, and steered her roughly through the gateway to the graveyard. ‘It won’t take long.’

Their feet squelched on the soggy ground, and Saphira felt cold water splashing over the edges of her shoes and chilling her feet. The flooding was much deeper than when she had been there earlier. It didn’t seem to stop Thorpe, however. He waded through the rising waters, pushing her onwards towards the cover of the trees at the lower end of the cemetery. At another time, this would have been a pretty grove that would have merited its name as the Jews’ Garden. Now, it struck Saphira as a scary and secluded spot. She wondered if, in her pride, she had miscalculated. If this was to be where she died, then she would have the truth at least, and die knowing she was right. She turned round to face Thorpe, shaking her ann free of his grasp.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Who killed Wilfrid? Yes.’

‘Not just Wilfrid. You killed the Templar priest twenty years ago, not this John Trewoon you claimed did it.’ Thorpe’s eyes now looked like cold, dead pebbles, not at all like William’s any more. The hardness in them spoke of implacability. He sneered.

‘I did not just kill him. It was part of the ritual.’ Saphira’s heart felt cold at the words. She knew they only confirmed her worst fears about this man. He saw her comprehension, and spoke on.

‘Yes. You know, don’t you? You are a Jew, so you must know.’

‘Of Hiram, and the legend of his death?’

‘Yes. I learned it first when I watched a performance of my craft guild’s mystery play in York. It told of an apprentice who wanted to know the secrets of the mason’s craft from Hiram, builder of the Temple. He refused, saying it took years of learning, and besides, they could only be revealed in the presence of three people. The apprentice went away, and persuaded two of his fellows to help him. The three accosted Hiram, demanding the secrets of his craft. But he said his life was worth nothing next to his secrets. So the three apprentices slew him, and buried him in the Temple rubble. Later their plot was discovered, and they were punished with death. It was supposed to teach us poor apprentice boys to be patient. But I was captured by the beauty of the ritual.’ Now Thorpe’s eyes glittered like jewels as he spoke. He was bound up in the majesty of his secret learning. But it was a perverted vision of the beauty of the mathematics that governed the rules of building. To Thorpe it was more magic than science, and Saphira wondered how he had sustained himself for so long in a mundane world. She supposed it was by guarding his secrets deep within his breast. But now she had exposed them, and she understood what he would have to do to her. She guessed he had already kept his deadly secret this long by killing the two apprentices who must have assisted him in the first ritual killing. She had no doubt there would have been two others involved with the priest’s death, just as there had been for Hiram’s death.