Falconer's Judgement

by Ian Morson

  Falconer's meal had been a much simpler repast of cheese and ale. Now he could no longer put off the business of confronting Brother Talam. Leaving his young charges to study by themselves, he turned down the narrow lanes running by the south walls of the town. The path was awash with the filth thrown carelessly out of the houses that overhung the lanes. And the damp heat of the afternoon turned the turbid liquid into an air-borne humour that seemed to cling to Falconer's clothes. Turning the lane at Corner Hall, he was glad to pass the grounds of St Frideswide's Church where the sweet scent of wildflowers cut through the stench. He left the town by the small postern gate in the west wall which stood under the looming St George's Tower. Breathing the less fetid air of the open meadows, Falconer followed the muddy track leading to the abbey. The imposing cluster of buildings stood on a small rise in the middle of the flood-prone fields, and access was by one path running over several rivulets that ran down into the Thames.

  Crossing the rickety footbridge over Trill Mill stream, he came upon the tail of a crowd of cheerfully noisy students, clearly also making their way to the abbey. It was not until he was close to the rear of the rowdy throng that he recognized any of them, and knew them for some of the poorer clerks. Despite the apparently piercing nature of his blue eyes, which he used to bore into the conscience of many a guilty clerk, Falconer's sight was increasingly poor. He relied on his wits to conceal his incapacity, knowing how cruel jests would be made about it and the bird for which he was named. He simply rued the years he had spent poring over texts in candlelight, to which he attributed the ruination of his sight.

  Knowing some of the clerks at the rear of the crowd by name, he hailed them and fell alongside one, engaging him in conversation.

  ‘It's William Coksale, isn't it?’

  The youth nodded.

  ‘And why are you and your friends off to the abbey, when you should be studying for your Responsions?’

  The gentle chiding caused Coksale to blush.

  ‘It is what happens after our passing of examinations that concerns us. Most of us do not have wealthy patrons, and must find benefices by making connections where we can.’

  ‘Especially when the King prefers foreigners over native- born Englishmen?’

  Coksale left his concurrence unsaid, for everyone knew that despite the actions of the influential barons over the last year or two, the King was unrepentant in his support for the Pope's appointees to the English Church. The Papal Legate himself had bestowed many vacant benefices on his own retinue the minute he had set foot in England.

  ‘We thought we would pay our respects to Bishop Otho and hope to win some favours in return. We understand he is most amenable after the dinner hour.’

  The last was said with a knowing smile, obviously directed at Falconer. The youth clearly thought Falconer was also seeking preferment, but the Master soon corrected the mistaken impression.

  ‘I fear my business is not with the Lord Bishop, and is about more mundane matters.’

  He patted the empty purse fastened to his belt, and bid farewell to William Coksale. The crowd split respectfully as he strode through them, and he nodded at some faces he recognized. Most were cheerful, but some were grim-faced, as though their future depended on this day - as well it could. One young man, accoutred with a bow and set of arrows, seemed glassy-eyed with fear of what was to come. Falconer recalled seeing a similar stare in someone else's eyes recently, but could not remember whom. Putting it out of his mind, he strode under the arch of the abbey gate, passing with some embarrassment the outstretched hand of an indigent priest who hovered at the entrance. By his accent he took him for an Irishman, and wished him better luck at his begging with the Abbot or the Bishop. It would have been impossible for him to give anyway, as he had no money.

  As the man made off towards the cloisters, Falconer was glad to feel the faint cool breeze that the buildings trapped on humid days such as today. It served to confirm the well- organized nature of monastic life in comparison to the chaos of communal life in Oxford. He paused to let the welcome breeze wash across his face. The recent storm had not abated the sullen heat of the day, which now caused his heavy robes to stick to him. As he leaned against the chapel wall, he let the cool of the stone strike through his damp clothes.

  ‘Master Falconer.’

  The sharp tones of the monk's voice cut through Falconer's pleasure. He opened his eyes to be confronted with his Nemesis in the shape of a tall, grim-faced monk, the hood of his habit thrown back.

  ‘Brother Peter. I have been looking forward to our meeting.’

  The monk's silence said that either he did not believe Falconer, or if he did the feeling was not a mutual one.

  ‘Follow me.’

  As he turned to lead Falconer to his quarters, both men saw the crowd of students approaching the archway to the main courtyard of the abbey. Before them stood the squat shape of a man at ease with his powerful frame. The monk grimaced.

  ‘If they have come to see the Papal Legate, they will not get past him.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Falconer asked curiously.

  ‘The Bishop's bodyguard. There has been more than one attempt on his life recently, and it is as difficult to see him as the Pope himself. Unless you have money or influence. The Bishop is currently in audience with some people with money. Probably too much money, for I would imagine they wish to lavish it upon the Bishop in return for favours. He is unlikely to interrupt that for a ragged rabble of penniless students.’

  The last words were spoken with distaste, and the monk beckoned Falconer down a cool, dark passage away from the potential confrontation.

  Bearing in mind what then took place, Falconer was to regret not seeing what transpired himself. It was always so difficult to garner the truth from a motley crew of unreliable witnesses after the event. However, follow the monk he did and was agreeably pleased that Brother Peter seemed anxious to conclude their business quickly. Falconer always found his room and his company depressing. So he was glad when the bursar swiftly counted out his stipend, deducting the year's rent, and excused himself on the pretext of more important business.

  Falconer decided to use the time available to him to speak with John Darby, whom he found altogether more amenable. The monk was supervising the copying of some texts of Aristotle for the Regent Master. Falconer had obtained an authentic Greek text about natural science through his friend Jehozadok, a Jewish priest in the town. Previously, Aristotle had been known only through commentaries on Arabic texts translated from the Syriac, itself translated from the Greek - not a course guaranteed to open Aristotle's true thoughts to the Western world.

  On entering the Scriptorium, Falconer was disappointed not to see the friendly, rosy-cheeked face at the raised desk at the end of the room. Two rows of pale-faced monks sat on high stools painstakingly copying texts for the abbey library and the atmosphere was of intense concentration. The burnished wooden desks were scattered with papers, and each had a horn box filled with quills. Each copyist worked to his own rhythms, scanning text, inking his quill and writing. There was a constant scratching sound, like grasshoppers in high summer, as many quill points travelled over paper leaving their trail of knowledge. Each monk's head rose and dipped as he read the original he was copying and returned to the copy. Tonsured heads bobbed in a matching rhythm to the pens.

  Light still streamed in from the high windows, although the afternoon was well advanced. The nearest copyist to the door raised his head from his task after a few minutes and looked enquiringly at Falconer. The Master knew him for one of the monks entrusted with the task of copying Aristotle. However, he knew better than to ask if the youth had any opinions of the text. He had been chosen by John Darby not only because of his accuracy and beautiful hand, but because of his total ignorance of the content of any text he copied. The Church did not approve of Aristotle's views on the sciences, and none of its elite could be tarnished by the concepts. In this context the young monk, accurate and uncompr
ehending, was perfect for the task.

  ‘Brother John is not here, I see.’

  The young man silently shook his head and held his quill poised ready to return to his work. Politely but firmly dismissed, Falconer left the monks to their task. As he began to descend the creaky wooden stairs that led down from the Scriptorium, he heard a great shout in the courtyard below. Turning back up the stairs, he re-entered the Scriptorium to find the reverse of the calm room he had left moments ago. Stools were scattered on the floor, and the normally sedate monks who occupied them were struggling at the windows to see whatever was afoot. The view was obscured by well-padded backsides in heavy woollen habits, and anyway Falconer's eyes were too feeble for a distant aspect. So, knowing he was unlikely to learn much from this vantage point, he retraced his step down the staircase, leaping two or three steps at a time.

  In the courtyard all was chaos. A large group of students was beating upon the vast oak door that led to the guest hall. The thunder of their fists echoed around the normally calm abbey. In the middle of the open yard lay the bloodied shape of the Legate's bodyguard. At first Falconer thought he was dead. But even as he screwed up his eyes to see better, the man groaned and rolled over. Falconer breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the conflict in hand. To his right he could see another group of the students entering the cloisters, clearly intent on finding another entry to the Bishop's quarters. As they began to stream around the sheltered arcade, a cry came from several.

  ‘There he is. Thief of our money!’

  ‘Thief of our livings!’

  There was a flash of purple and gold as the Bishop, still in his canonical cope, left the far end of the cloisters and was hustled by his servants to the abbey church. The group of students at the oaken door gave up their efforts to break it down, and responded to the cries. One student had found a blazing torch and had applied it to the door in an attempt to burn it down. A long smear of black disfigured the heavily studded surface and the brand lay smouldering on the stone step. The knot of angry youths now followed on the heels of their comrades in a pincer movement down both sides of the cloisters. The cries of the students were like baying hounds pursuing their prey.

  Falconer was left wondering what could have sparked such extreme action. Whatever it was, the outcome would be equally extreme for the whole of Oxford. He stepped out of the archway that had hidden him from the mob and immediately bumped into a hurrying figure. Both men clutched at each other, as though expecting the other to land a blow. Falconer was the quicker to react and pinioned the other's arms at his side. He was confronted with the angry, red face of the abbey's prior, Brother John Darby. His normally rubicund features were distorted and he took a few seconds to recover his calm and catch his breath. Imagining that the monk had been on his way to render the Bishop some assistance, Falconer offered his help and went to follow where the mob of students had gone. But the monk held him by the sleeve, and pulled him in the opposite direction back towards the guest hall.

  ‘Follow me. The Bishop will be safe in the church, and if necessary he can wait until dark to make his escape. There is something more urgent for us to deal with.’

  He saw the puzzlement on Falconer's face.

  There's been a murder. I need your help.’

  Brother John led Falconer through a side door to the guest hall that the student mob had not seen. He followed along a corridor that led up to the inside of the same massive oak door the students had been beating on. From this side there was no sign of damage and a sturdy metal bolt suggested the mob had had no chance of entering this way. To one side of the entrance hall there was an archway that led to the kitchens. The monk scurried through the arch, and the scene that greeted Falconer was one of chaos. Several heavy pans were overturned and a swill of food was smeared across the floor. Two petrified servants stood pressed against the far wall as though they wished to pass through it and disappear. Their eyes were agog with fear and fixed on the floor. In the centre of the room, face-down on the cold, grey flagstones, lay a body with an arrow piercing the centre of its back. Over the body knelt an ashen-faced Peter Talam.

  ‘Brother Bursar!’ exclaimed Darby. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Talam rose quickly to his feet.

  ‘I was waiting in the ante-room to see the Bishop. What on earth has happened?’

  Falconer pushed aside the two monks and began to examine the scene. The man's face, pressed to the floor, was turned towards Falconer and he could see a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth to mingle with the spoiled meal that lay around him. Careless of the food on the floor, Falconer knelt by the body and examined the wound. The arrow had pierced the back at an acute upwards angle and was buried deep in the flesh. It must have entered the heart and the man would probably have been dead as he hit the floor.

  His eyes were still open and a look of shock was written on his face. The man was large, and his face red and heavily jowled. One cheek was squashed against the cold floor, and his mouth was half-open revealing yellowed teeth. His bulbous nose filled the centre of his florid face. One podgy hand was flung out as though to break his fall. The other arm was crushed at an odd angle under his body. Falconer stood up, wiping the stain of food from his shabby robe, and examined the position of the body again.

  From where he stood he could look through the archway of the kitchen and clearly see the oaken door that was the main entrance to the Bishop's quarters. The head of the dead man was pointed towards the archway.

  ‘Has anyone moved the body?’

  The two cooks stared at each other in incomprehension and Brother John responded first.

  ‘I was here before them and that was how he lay. These two were busy closing the main door on the students and only came through after I called them.’

  He pointed with an ink-stained finger at the body.

  ‘He was already dead, of course.’

  ‘And the arrow was fired from outside?’

  ‘Obviously. One of your students is guilty of murder. You must find him and punish him.’

  Falconer merely grunted and turned to the two cooks.

  ‘Did you see the arrow fired?’

  Both men looked puzzled, until Falconer gestured at the arrow still protruding from the body. In an accent heavy with inflections of Rome, the older of the two explained he did not see who fired the arrow, but that it narrowly missed him as he strove to push the door closed. The other nodded vigorously in agreement. However, neither knew what had caused the riot in the first place. Nor had either one seen the arrow actually hit the man now slumped on the floor. Or at least they were not saying if they had, relying on their poor command of the language to protect them.

  ‘Does it matter if they did see?’ asked the prior impatiently. ‘It clearly did hit him. The evidence is before your eyes.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Falconer, his tones calming the agitated monk. ‘I am simply applying Aristotle's deductive logic to the situation. This requires the establishment of general truths not open to reasonable doubt. Then, when you put them together, they often imply a further truth not previously seen, which can then be demonstrated.’

  ‘Now is not the time for a lecture.’

  ‘Perhaps. It is certainly not the time either to question a group of hot-heads intent on causing the Bishop harm. They will give up shortly, if your confidence in the security of the church is to be trusted. Tomorrow will be soon enough.’

  Brother John was about to object, when there came a thunderous knocking on the door. Both cooks looked nervously at the monks and their inquisitor. Falconer could not believe that it would be the students returned to cause more mischief. The sole target of their anger was ensconced in the abbey church, and they would not be politely knocking to gain admittance there. He gestured for the Bishop's servants to let in whoever it was. With reluctance they pulled back the heavy bolt and swung the door open. Outside, and quite alone, stood a squat man leaning on a large but rusty sword.
A crooked smile crossed his leathery face as he spotted the Regent Master.

  ‘I might have known you would be here.’

  ‘Hello, Peter.’

  He gestured for the man to come in and introduced him to the monks.

  ‘If you have not encountered him before, Brother John, this ugly brute is Peter Bullock, the town's constable, and a good friend of mine.’

  Bullock and Falconer might have seemed unlikely comrades-in-arms. The constable served the burghers of the town, who paid him to take on their responsibilities of maintaining the law. His demeanour betrayed him as an old foot soldier of simple origins. Despite his bent back and age, adversaries found him bewilderingly quick in turning situations to his advantage. He was a man of physical courage and even temperament. Falconer, the Regent Master and philosopher of the University, should have lived in a different world to the constable. But Falconer's curiosity on matters of strange deaths had thrown them together, and the Master had soon found need of the other's skills. It looked as though they might be needed again.

  ‘I understand there has been a little disturbance here. Caused by some of your students,’ Bullock began.

  Falconer shook his head sadly.

  ‘I fear it is more than a little disturbance.’

  He stepped aside and revealed the disorder in the kitchen. Bullock's eyes focused on the body in the centre of the room. He quietly cursed and stepped up to it.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Brother Peter supplied the information.

  ‘He's called Sinibaldo. He is ... was the Bishop's master of cooks.’

  Bullock's curses redoubled and he wiped his huge fist across his face. He turned to Falconer.

  ‘I hope you are not going to get yourself involved in this matter, my friend. This is not just a scrap between some students and town traders. This is high politics.’

  ‘What? The killing of a cook?’