by Ian Morson
Bullock looked down at the rich, multi-coloured robes that adorned the large frame of the man lying dead on the floor - robes now ruined with his blood.
‘I think he was more than a mere cook, William. Even I can deduce that, without the benefit of Aristotle.’
He was in perpetual disagreement with Falconer's strange methodology. He could not accept that some obscure philosophy was able to identify a murderer. His methods had more to do with seeking reasons for guilt, reasons such as revenge or envy. But he had to admit that the Regent Master was more often right than wrong, however he arrived at his conclusions.
‘No, this will have to go further than you or I, my friend.’
Falconer merely shook his head.
‘There is nothing to prevent us seeking our own truths, whatever ripples this all causes in the wider world.’
He scanned the room again and his eyes fell on something he had not spotted before. He pushed past the two frightened cooks and ran his fingers along a deep, fresh gash in the wooden frame of the doorway that led to the scullery.
‘Don't you see? There is something very wrong here.’
‘Indeed there is, and I am about to put it right.’
The harsh and heavy voice caused everyone in the room to turn from Falconer. In the archway stood a tall and opulently caparisoned man of full years. Peter Bullock knew him to be Humphrey Segrim, a landowner and burgher of great influence in the town. The man's face was contorted with rage.
‘I have already sent my servant to Abingdon, for I know the King is in residence and would wish to protect the Lord Bishop from this student rabble. His soldiers will no doubt be here soon.’
He gestured towards the body.
‘I now see there is more than just the gross offence to the Bishop to charge the mob with. This will be grave for the whole University.’
There was a ring of pleasure in his words.
Chapter Four
It was market day in Oxford, and even the untimely death of the Legate's master of cooks could not stop that. For days traders had been making their way towards the market town and only when they reached Oxford did most of them hear of the murder. In many of the taverns there was little sympathy expressed for the foreigner. There were too many of them in England anyway. Although the market was not the attraction it was twenty years ago, it was still a riotous throng of merchants, each set on selling their own produce. And today the good weather had ensured a full attendance of sellers and buyers. The confusion even started outside the city walls. The main road leading down towards North Gate was the traditional site for the sale of cattle and sheep. This morning, as every market morning, woven hurdles strove to keep one farmer's animals from another's. Sometimes they failed and red-faced farm boys scurried round and round, slapping cows' haunches with hazel twigs in an effort to control them. Burly farmers stood face to face arguing over whose sheep was whose. The miasma of dung and steaming animals hung over the whole incoherent mass.
Any traveller who penetrated this press of livestock and entered Oxford at North Gate was confronted with a human melee. The narrow lane which led to the junction with the High Street was lined with stalls. On each were laid out the horticultural efforts of the region. Every trader vied with his neighbour to attract attention by calling out his prices louder than the other.
Turning east along the High Street, the traveller would find the more established trades. In shops no more than six feet wide, spicer competed with spicer and goldsmith with goldsmith in the same part of the town. In the back of many shops, a craftsman sat bent over a table hammering and shaping his wares, which were laid out at the front for the passer-by to admire. Today their trade was subdued, and they blamed the friar.
At the widest part of the street, a great crowd had gathered, turning their backs on the shops. They all faced inwards towards a single figure, who stood with his hands raised to the heavens. He wore the robes of a Dominican friar, stained with recent travel. His face was contorted with emotion, and the bright morning sun seemed to create a halo round his severely tonsured head. He held the crowd with his words, which echoed off the walls of St Mary's Church, in front of which he stood. The church was soon to be rebuilt and the crumbling facade seemed to reflect the friar's exposition on the collapse of society.
'Your lives are like this market. They are full of people, and adorned with a great paraphernalia of trinkets. But after the market has gone, the alleys of your lives are left strewn with more filth than ever before.’
The murmur from the crowd confirmed for the friar that he had the onlookers' attention. He went on to his main thesis.
‘You must repent now, for the days of the Last Judgement are on us. The Bible prophesies what is to happen at the breaking of the Seven Seals. You have only to look into your past to see the time is come.’
As with the crowds he had addressed in London, he led these gullible people to reflect on any disaster that had occurred to them over the years and to attribute it to the coming Apocalypse. Today he had another example to convince them of impending doom - and to serve the political aims of his order, which had no time for the Roman establishment.
‘Only yesterday an agent of the Anti-Christ was struck down by the hand of God. One of the Pope's servants, sent to oppress us, was justly killed. For it is written that at the breaking of the Seventh Seal all the beasts of Satan will be laid low.’
At the front of the crowd, as at other assemblies, several men fell to their knees ignoring the noisome stew that ran down the middle of the street. On market day the sewage channel ran stronger and more putrid. But the souls who knelt by it were oblivious to anything but their own salvation. They hung on every word that the friar spoke and awaited his absolution. The words that followed would have been familiar to William Falconer, for he had heard them from the same lips in London but a few days earlier.
‘At the breaking of the Seventh Seal you will all be judged but few will be called to paradise. The world will be ripped asunder and there will be a new heaven and a new earth. The new Jerusalem will descend and God will have his dwelling on this earth. But the cowards, the faithless, and the fornicators will burn for ever in the sulphurous pit.’
Many in the assembled throng wept.
Thomas de Cantilupe was not yet officially the Chancellor of the University of Oxford. But he had already been nominated by the Bishop of Lincoln to replace the old man who had effectively ceased to carry out his duties. De Cantilupe was an ambitious man, and he saw this appointment as a stepping-stone to greater preferment. So he was anxious that nothing should go wrong so soon. He could imagine the criticisms - not yet Chancellor and the students are already out of control. He therefore took the unusual step of involving the town authorities in the rounding up of the students who had caused yesterday's affray. Earlier that morning Peter Bullock had stood before de Cantilupe, in as upright a stance as his bent back permitted him. He had listened as the Chancellor-to-be rambled on about the events of the previous day.
‘Once the King had been alerted to the straits the Bishop was in, he sent soldiers to rescue him. Thank goodness, they were able to cross the Thames with the Bishop under cover of darkness and escort him to Abingdon.’
Bullock had heard that the Bishop had tumbled off his horse in the middle of fording the river, and had been dragged by the collar of his canonical robes to the southern bank. There, he had been unceremoniously dumped in the cow pasture whilst his horse was retrieved. The stench that stuck to him had ensured his escort kept at a respectful distance thereafter. The thought brought a smile to Bullock's lips, which de Cantilupe interpreted as approval of the saving of the Papal Legate. He continued his diatribe.
‘Naturally the King was outraged at the offence shown to the Lord Bishop and wishes the culprits caught. Especially the killer of his master of cooks. It will not bode well for the University if action is not swift.’
Thus it was that Peter Bullock, town constable, had been recruited to work with the
University proctors to round up a group of scholars suspected of being the instigators of the riot at Oseney Abbey. Ten scholars were crammed in the tiny cell at the foot of the Great Keep in the west of Oxford. The cell was intended to house only one or two malefactors at a time, and even then the conditions were unpleasant. Purposely so, as no one once incarcerated relished returning. Now the situation was appalling. A tiny barred window was located high above the prisoners' heads, though from the outside it was barely noticeable at street level. Very little light penetrated even on the brightest days. Nor did it afford any breath of air from beyond the cell. Most of the young men stood shoulder to shoulder, barely able to move. The heat of their bodies made the cell unbearably hot, and the smell of sweat hung thickly in the air. One scholar sat on the urine-stained straw that covered the floor, his legs drawn up tight to his chest. Occasionally, someone moved to ease his tired limbs and one of those standing was pushed and stumbled against the hunched figure, cursing. He merely curled his arms tighter around his knees and stared blankly ahead.
Peter Bullock's own quarters were above the cell, at street level. It was sext, the day half gone, and William Falconer had appeared at his door. He wanted to interview the prisoners. Despite their friendship, Bullock was worried about Falconer's interference in such a sensitive matter. Not merely sensitive - the King himself was involved. But Falconer was persuasive.
‘I simply wish to establish what happened. For my own satisfaction. I missed the crucial events and something is bothering me.’
Bullock knew to be worried when something bothered his friend. It meant that a straightforward criminal act would somehow become complicated and as convoluted as a snail shell. Falconer could sense his hesitancy.
‘No one can blame you if, while you are out keeping the peace, a Master, well known for his uncontrollable curiosity, borrows your keys and talks to his students.’
The constable snorted.
‘Borrows! Steals, more like.’ But he knew he would have to give in and left Falconer with one plea.
‘At least tell me what you learn. I don't even know if I've got the right students. Your lot aren't renowned for their honesty. And I am sure a few personal scores were being settled when I was given their names.’
He levered himself up on to his bowed legs and lurched out of the room, having dropped his bunch of keys on the pitted and stained table. He threw a comment over his shoulder.
‘It's the big one you want.’
Falconer scooped up the heavy keys and walked through to the dingy yard overlooked on all sides by the Great Keep. A flight of stone steps led down to the great oaken door that incarcerated the students. At the bottom of the steps he selected the largest key on the battered ring and slid it into the lock. It turned easily, suggesting regular use. He pushed against the studded surface of the door and it swung into the cell. There was the sound of muffled curses as bodies shuffled back from the entrance.
Falconer detected fear in the exhalation of sweat that flowed from the cell. In the gloom even his poor vision could see that the eyes that fastened on to him were big with worry about what was to happen. He knew his large frame was intimidating, perhaps more so in the cell doorway now. As he didn't want, on this occasion at least, to frighten the students too much, he sat down on the bottom step of the flight that led to this little hell, and smiled gently.
‘You all appear to be in some trouble.’
One of the students recognized him, and gasped in relief.
Thank God, Master. Are you here to help us?’
‘I may be able to, if you will help me.’
There was an unconscious surge of bodies towards him that stopped short of crossing the threshold, and Falconer knew they would do anything for him to gain their release. He also knew there was not much he could do to improve their situation now. However, he did not regret playing on their fears. They had been very foolish and deserved the incarceration they would suffer until someone negotiated a penance for their release. Falconer simply wanted the truth.
Tell me what happened yesterday.’
Ann Segrim was a dutiful wife. It mattered little that her intelligence set her above her husband, Humphrey. She knew the lord of the manor of Botley grew angry if she displayed her greater knowledge, and would follow the ruling of the Dominican Friars and beat her. There was only one book he had read in his life, and that but briefly. It was a theological treatise written by Friar Nicolas Byard, and he relished quoting a particular passage as a threat. Ann could recite it by heart now, also.
‘A man may chastise his wife and beat her for her correction, for she is of his household and therefore the lord may chastise his own. ’
At the beginning of their marriage, arranged by her parents, she had feared her new husband, who was twenty years older than her. She had been selected for her good looks, and Humphrey had presumed she would be obedient. Unfortunately, Ann had assumed her new husband would welcome her contribution to the management of the estate. Did not her own father and mother share in the worries and the triumphs? She had been shocked and humiliated when her husband acted on Friar Byard's nostrum for the first time. It served only to make her angry and more wilful, which in its turn gave Segrim more reason to ‘chastise’. But she had soon learned that her cleverness, not her wilfulness, would see her through. It became a pleasurable game to do exactly as she wished, without ever giving him cause for complaint. Soon she had tamed him, though he was unaware of it. And so she gave him no excuse to chastise her, though she did have to acquiesce to his amorous advances once in a while. Of late though these had considerably reduced, much to her private relief - perhaps because no children had been conceived in their ten years of marriage. Now her life was comfortable, if a little dull. Any distraction was a pleasure to her, and today was about to provide the beginnings of a significant distraction.
She heard voices in the courtyard that her chamber overlooked. One of them was her husband's, raised in anger, and she was curious to discover who he was berating. She gathered up the embroidery on which she was working, set it aside and crossed to the window. It was thickly glazed, and gave a green cast to the world beyond it. However, she could see Humphrey pacing up and down in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, waving his hands at a figure who stood under the arch of the gateway leading out to Segrim's considerable holdings. The other man was calm and motionless, in stark contrast to the agitated figure of her husband. Ann Segrim wished he would step forward so she could see who he was.
To stay one step ahead of her husband, she preferred to know exactly what business he was occupied with. Of late he had been more secretive than usual, and she had as yet been unable to fathom what he was involved in. It did require him to be away from the manor for many days at a time, so from that point of view she hoped it would continue. Her husband stopped his pacing and cast a look around him as though to ascertain no one was spying on his little conspiracy. She pressed back against the cold stone surrounding the window as he shot a glance up to her room. She waited a moment before daring to look out again, and almost missed the other man emerging from the shadow.
He was dressed in a cleric's robe, but unfortunately he had his hood pulled well over his head. Ann was unable to see his features, and then the figure turned and was gone. She sighed, returned to the comfortable chair beside the hearth, and picked up her embroidery again.
Falconer turned the key on the cell door and leaned back against it. He had learned some more about what had transpired yesterday. And what they had told him fitted well with what he had seen himself. It appeared that the group of students he had encountered on the road to Oseney Abbey had indeed gone to pay their respects to the Bishop, many in the hope of being granted favours in the form of lucrative benefices. No one could survive today without a favour from someone who wielded power. And Bishop Otho was powerful - doubly so. Appointed by the Pope, it was said he also had the ear of the King. Some in the group did not like the thought of appealing for help to a forei
gner, but if needs must then anyone would swallow his pride.
Arriving at the gate soon after Falconer, they had encountered the Legate's bodyguard in the form of the thickset man the Regent Master had seen in the courtyard. They had been refused entrance by this man, but everyone had been relatively calm until another of the Bishop's retinue of servants entered the fray. He was passing through the courtyard with a pot full of hot water in his hands. Clearly feeling safe behind the squat frame of the bodyguard, he had apparently hurled abuse in his own tongue at the students. No one had understood what he said, but his supercilious Roman manner had been enough. A scuffle had broken out in the yard and the Roman servant had backed off.
Even then the matter might have been contained. But the servant, laden with his pot, had spotted the Irish chaplain whom Falconer had seen begging at the kitchen door. Without any provocation, the servant had thrown the scalding water all over the beggar. His scream alerted the students to what had happened, and a fellow feeling for the underdog roused their spirits. The incident immediately got out of hand and the bodyguard was beaten to the ground, overwhelmed by force of numbers.
At this point the story became confused. The students Falconer had questioned in the cell denied knowledge of an arrow being fired off. Certainly the servant had retreated behind the door leading to the guest hall and struggled to shut it in the students' faces. Some said they thought they had seen the Bishop in the doorway, but were not sure. They had after all seen him only briefly on his passage through Oxford. No one could say for sure if anyone else had appeared, until someone had spotted the Bishop, recognizable now by his episcopal robes, retreating from the rear of the hall through the cloisters. They had been unsuccessful in catching up with him before he had reached the sanctuary of the church. With the church door slammed in their face, they had had to be content with hurling abuse until the King's men had come to rescue the Bishop.
Of course, Falconer himself had witnessed these last scenes, and could understand why discretion had proved the better part of valour in the students' retreat. Unfortunately, they had spent the night in drunken boasting about their antics and there were enough people in Oxford willing to identify them the following morning. Now they were paying for their indiscretions. Falconer sighed, still needing more information about the events of yesterday.
