[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (7 page)

Apprentice mason Peter Pawlyn was well content with his afternoon’s work. While his dumb ox of a fellow-worker, John Trewoon, had slumbered on the street corner looking after their sacks of tools, Pawlyn had hurried down the narrow lane that cut through Oxford’s Jewry, over the main north-south road that defined one of the four ways through the town, and to a house close by St Aldate’s Church. He knocked on the door, and slid quickly inside when it was opened. Standing in the shadows of the unlit room was a tall, rangy man whose face was concealed by a hooded cloak. Pawlyn wondered for a moment if the stranger ever saw the light. Did he live in darkness all his days? Then, as the man turned towards an open window, he glimpsed a dark tan on his aquiline features and a thick black beard. He had clearly been born or had travelled in hotter climes and under a stronger sun than that of England. Was he a knight who had travelled to the Holy Land, or a native of those regions? It actually mattered little to Pawlyn, even though he was mildly curious about the origins of his employer. What did matter was he had said he would pay well for information about the goings on at the building site in Little Jewry Lane.

‘You have information for me?’

The dark man’s accent was foreign, probably French, though he spoke passably well in English. Pawlyn’s own brogue identified him as a man of Devon, and the locals in Oxford sometimes could not understand what he said. He spoke as clearly as he could to the man in the shadows.

‘I found a ring in the rubble in-fill before Wilfrid, the foreman, climbed up to see the body we uncovered.: He didn’t know why he lied. For some reason, he did not want the man to know he had stolen the ring from the bucket of bones left in the mason’s lodge by his foreman.

‘You have it with you?’

Pawlyn fancied he saw the man’s eyes sparkle from the depths of his cavernous hood. He would have to handle this carefully. Clearly, the ring was worth more to this man than if he sold it for its face value. He reckoned he could get the equivalent of a week’s wages or more off a dealer who cared not whether the ring had been obtained legitimately or not.

Should he double the figure? Whoever the man was, he sensed Pawlyn’s prevarication, and the cause of it.

‘I will give you two weeks’ wages for it. But you must give it to me now.’

Pawlyn was about to dicker with him, but felt the power of the man’s presence filling the room. It would be so easy for the man to spit him with a knife and take the ring anyway.

He cursed silently his lack of forethought. He should have hidden the ring rather than bring it with him. The man had obviously seen him squeezing the bottom of the purse that hung at his waist, and had guessed Pawlyn was reassuring himself of the existence of the heavy ring. He grunted, and dug into his purse. Soon, though, he could anticipate the few coins left there being joined by a merry band of golden companions. Then he would celebrate in style.

‘Here, take it. But let’s see the money first.’

From under his cloak the man produced a heavy-looking bag that clinked pleasingly when he hefted it in his hand. It seems he had guessed Pawlyn’s price from the start. The builder held out the signet ring, a not inconsiderable chunk of gold, with a seal carved in stone on its flat surface. It had been dull when Pawlyn had dug it from the bucket, but he had rubbed the seal clean with his broad thumb. It now shone in the moonlight filtering through the window. He was now able to make out the symbol on its surface. It was worn, but looked like a horse with two riders on it, though it meant nothing to him.

But it obviously meant a lot to his employer. He eagerly grasped the ring, and dropped the bag of coins simultaneously into Pawlyn’s upturned hand.

‘Ahhh. So, it is you. After all these years.’

‘Pardon me, sir?’

‘Nothing, Pawlyn. You may go. You have served me well.’ The man was distracted by the ring, which he was examining closely.

‘And if I find anything else out, sir?’

‘What? Oh yes, any further news will be of interest. You know how to contact me.’

The man turned his back on Pawlyn, and held the ring and its strange seal up to the moonlight. Peter Pawlyn left as surreptitiously as he had come, his newly heavy purse bumping satisfyingly on his hip. As he closed the door, he almost bumped into a priest, who was hurrying out of the precincts of the church on the corner as if the Devil were after him.

Not wishing to be seen in the vicinity of his paymaster, Pawlyn hung back in the shadows until the whey-faced cleric had disappeared.

Brother Simon did not see him. If he had, he might have died of fright. In his present frame of mind, affected by the evil he thought he had witnessed, he was imagining horrors on every side. Especially as his route took him through Jewry.

Though the doors were prudently closed, it being now after dark, he could not be certain that he would not be abducted from the street himself. He had forgotten the quiet nature of most of the Jews he encountered every day on the same streets.

Now every door seemed to hide a demon. He picked up his pace and almost ran towards the sanctuary of St Frideswide’s.

There he would share his discovery with the prior, Thomas Brassyngton.

Falconer had the nasty taste of death in his mouth, and needed to be rid of it. Besides, he needed to ponder Peter Bullock’s unusual behaviour. So he did not return immediately to the solemn surroundings of Aristotle’s Hall. One of the quieter taverns attracted him, and he stepped inside. But, having lingered over a small beer, and come to no sensible conclusions as to that matter, or the identity of the body, Falconer finally turned for home. He knew the oldest man in Oxford was his friend Rabbi Jehozadok, and if anyone could remember what happened twenty years ago, then it would be the rabbi.

But he decided it was not possible to call on him now as the hour was too late. He would save his enquiries for the morrow.

As he would another meeting with the constable, Peter Bullock.

He had been surprised at Peter’s reluctance to pursue the matter of the old murder, and was curious as to its cause. But he would contain his curiosity until later.

The narrow shop frontages along the two main streets that divided the town into four quarters were all shuttered now.

The fishmongers and firewood-sellers, the glovers and the silversmiths were all secure in their own homes. Lower down, in the byways and narrow side lanes, Falconer could hear the raucous noise of young men at play, free from their daytime mental gymnastics in the university schools. It was the turn of the tapsters and brewers to ply their trade. Later it would be the pimps and prostitutes who took over. Falconer was passed by the night-watch - four elderly men who would be able to do little if the students became violent, but who seemed nevertheless to keep the lid on most bad behaviour. One of the men, bald-headed and florid of face, gave him a glance and smiled.

‘God give you a good night, master.’

Falconer mumbled a reply, and went on his way. He cut down St John’s Lane to avoid the noisiest of the revels that tumbled out of the drinking rooms and taverns close by St Frideswide’s Church. Still the strains of a bunch of drunken students echoed down the lane behind him.

‘Bacchus saepe visitans

Mulierum genus

Facit eas subditas

Tibi, O tu Venus!’

He contented himself with the thought that at least they were singing their profane songs in Latin. Crossing Grope Lane, he almost bumped into a couple of workmen, one tall and burly, the other short and wiry. The stench of ale pervaded their clothes and their breaths when they remonstrated with Falconer over interrupting their erratic course up the lane. The wiry one was the more belligerent.

‘Watch out, you old sodomite. Go and swive one of your students, and leave the whores to real men.’

He staggered off before the startled Falconer could think of a smart retort. The burly one shrugged his shoulders, and apologized for his friend.

‘Sorry, master. Only Peter has come into some money tonight, and he means to enjoy himself. He did not mean to offend you.’

Falconer smiled ruefully.

‘That is fine. Though I must say that I have many sins on my conscience, but buggery is not one of them. Watch out

for your friend. I see he is intent on visiting Agnes’ brothel.

There are light fingers at work in there.’

The man called Peter was leaning on the doorway of a whorel!ouse, and beckoning to his friend to come. Every time he waved his arm, he swayed and almost fell over. Finally he clutched at the door frame, and vomited into the mud at his feet. ‘ "

‘I suggest you take him home. He will regret this tomorrow when he rises for work.’

The big man grinned sheepishly, and slung the two sacks he was carrying over his shoulder. The metallic clank as he did so suggested he and his friend were carpenters or masons.

Falconer hoped that the sonorous note of a well-swung hammer hitting a chisel would teach Peter a lesson the next day about drinking too much.

‘Yes, master. I will get him home safely, never fear. Good night, and sorry again.’

Falconer nodded, and watched as the burly workman lumbered up the lane towards his drunken companion, who was now on his knees retching. He sighed, and carried on towards Aristotle’s Hall.

‘This is grave news you bring me, Simon.’

Thomas Brassyngton, Prior of St Frideswide’s, was a fussy man with an inflated sense of his own importance. Truth to tell, he held a significant post in the town of Oxford. St Frideswide’s Priory was a major ecclesiastical foundation, but it was still outmatched by Oseney Abbey outside the town walls to the west, and struggled to draw in as many pilgrims to see its various reliquaries. Brassyngton smarted under the shadow cast by Oseney, and in consequence did everything possible to outdo his bigger rival whenever he’could. When the curate of St Aldate’s had come to his door with tales of blood sacrifice, he had swallowed his annoyance at being importuned so late at night. Normally, after the large meal he had already consumed, he would have retired to sleep off the copious amounts of good red wine he had drunk along with the heavy repast. He had almost refused to see Simon. But the urgency of his pleas had struck a chord, and he had finally agreed.

As Simon told his story of unearthly screams, sinister Jews, and bodies being dragged bloodily indoors, the prior began to calculate the benefits to himself and his church if he personally was to uncover evil in the town. It was scarce fifteen years since poor Hugh of Lincoln had been discovered, and they were already calling him Little Saint Hugh. Lincoln Cathedral was profiting mightily from the incident, so the sacrifice of children in Oxford could create a similarly lucrative opportunity for a pilgrimage. Especially if he could obtain the child’s body. Brassyngton narrowed his eyes.

‘Have you told anyone else of this matter, Simon?’

‘No, prior. I thought first of you.’

‘Good. Now, do not reveal your concerns to anyone. And I will overlook the simple matter of your.., er... difficulties with the words of the Mass.’

‘Yes, Prior Thomas.’ Simon breathed a sigh of relief. His living was safe thanks to what he had seen, and his judicious choice of confessor.

Nine

30 August, 1271

The morning did not begin well for Falconer. He had slept badly, his mind churning over the discovery of the body of the man buried in the walls of the house in Little Jewry Lane. Something was very amiss with what he had seen, but he could not recollect what it was that nibbled at the corners of his mind. A megrim then started to burgeon, causing his head to pound and making thinking an impossibility. He had lain awake stating out of the window of his solar as the moon became gradually obscured by scudding clouds. Lately, he had experienced regular headaches, and once as a result had completely forgotten his train of thought in the midst of a lecture. The subject - Aristotle’s
Prior Analytics
- was as familiar to him as his own palm, and he had intoned the tenets a thousand times.

‘First then take a universal negative with the terms A and B. If no B is A, neither can any A be B. For if some As - we will call them C - were B, it would not be true that.., not true that...’

Suddenly, the sequence that he had rattled off to hundreds of students refused to emerge from his brain. And a sudden shaft of a headache arrowed through his left eye. He had covered the moment by brusquely harassing one of the more recalcitrant of his students.

‘Finish the premise, Tom Youlden.’

At least he had remembered the boy’s name, if not the principle he had been instilling into unwilling brains for years.

The boy had trembled, but had fumbled his way through that which had completely escaped his domine. The thought that he might be losing his memory petrified Falconer.

It had been the early morning before he had drifted into a disturbed slumber. And now, the sound of heavy rain awoke him. If it had not, he might have slept on fitfully past the time be should have been attending to his lessons in the schools along from St Mary’s Church. He sat up, and groaned as his befuddled brain reeled. Outside his window, the sky was pewter grey, and the day barely lighter than the night that had preceded it. The rain steepled down inexorably, and Falconer knew that many students would avoid his morning lectures rather than sit cold, wet and shivering in the chilly warren of rooms that made up the university schools. He thought of Dame Elia Bassett’s memorial to her dead husband. Perhaps a collegium where clerks lived and studied together in one place was not such a bad idea after all. At least they would not have to brave the persistent rains that regularly swept along the Thames valley.