by Ian Morson
He climbed the steps back up to the dank yard that more resembled a pit, surrounded as it was by the high walls of the Keep. The sun had already disappeared from his limited view and the yard was gloomy and cold. Shivering, he pulled his threadbare robe around him. At least he knew there was another student he could question. William Coksale had not been in the dungeon below, having obviously evaded the strong arms of Peter Bullock. He would no doubt be as difficult to dig out as a badger in his set, but Falconer would find him.
As the Regent Master strode off purposefully to seek his missing witness, he failed to notice a still, patient figure in the corner of the gloomy courtyard. The Templar was used to merging with the landscape, whether it be the sand-blown dunes of the Holy Land or the more mundane grey stones of a tower in Oxford. Falconer would have been surprised if he had known his interrogation of the students had been overheard. But Guillaume de Beaujeu had caught every word, admiring as he did the Regent Master's technique in eliciting the facts. He disdained the use of more forcible methods himself, by habit a persuader more than an extractor.
He had come to the jail under the Great Keep because he too wanted to speak with the students incarcerated there. After the events of yesterday, he needed to know the extent of the information they held in their heads. Could they impede the progress of his plans in England by revealing too much? Had his actions of yesterday been observed? The responses to most of Falconer's questions had in the main allayed his fears, and he was grateful to the man for asking them unwittingly on his behalf. But whatever the extent of his powers, he could not read minds and was thus unaware of Falconer's next intentions. He did know, however, that he could learn much by following this man, and he slipped from the shadows in pursuit.
The Third Seal
In the year 1247 a famine struck the nation. The unnatural floods of the previous year had swept away the crops and so what little corn there was cost as much as 20 solidos per quarter. Many therefore perished of hunger, and there was no succour in sight, for the abundant crops this year were once again flattened by autumnal rains. Thus was the Third Seal broken and there came forth a rider on a black horse. He held scales in his hands, wailing, ‘A day's wage for a quart of flour.’
From the Chronica Oseneiensis
Chapter Five
Returning to Aristotle's Hall through the lanes that ran below the massive city walls, Falconer passed Little Gate. This cut through the wall's defences and gave the Dominicans access to the marshy and unhealthy island they inhabited outside the city. It also linked that land with the substantial property the order owned in St Ebbe's inside the city. Standing at the gate were two figures, merely a blur at this distance to Falconer's weak eyes. He went to pass the two, but closer he recognized one of the figures as a student of his, Hugh Pett. The boy was at the beginning of his studies, and his rich clothes betrayed him as someone from a wealthy family. His thin face, framed by carefully coifed red hair, was normally a picture of patrician composure. Now it was contorted with a horror reserved for the damned. The older man held him firmly by the arms and was shaking him.
'There is no hope, save for those Chosen by God. And they are few in number.’
The hectoring tones of the friar were familiar and, closer to, Falconer recognized him as the Dominican who had preached the imminence of the Apocalypse to the crowd in London. Now he was pouring out his vile warnings to one of Falconer's own students. The Dominican order, the so-called Preachers, had always irritated him. They set themselves up as superior in learning to the Franciscans, whom they called Minorites to belittle them. Heaven knows, but Falconer had little to thank the Franciscans for. Had they not virtually imprisoned his friend Roger Bacon? But at least they evinced a little humility. The Dominicans steadfastly refused to study the Arts, relying wholly on their theological background to dispute any subject. Since their arrival in Oxford, they had badgered the Jews of the town, and caused a few weak souls to convert to Christianity. Now they clearly wanted the whole populace on their knees in fear and trembling. He strode up to the pair.
'Master!’ Hugh Pett's eyes were rounded in horror. Yet there was only a cold smile of satisfaction on the face of the friar as he turned towards Falconer.
'What have you been telling this boy?’
The youth spoke first in stammering tones.
‘Master, Friar Fordam has come to tell us that the Last Judgement is near.’
Falconer snorted.
‘Every few years, our preaching brethren predict the end of the world. And when it does not come, they claim the power of their prayers has saved us. It is a safe gamble.’
He fixed the friar with his penetrating blue eyes. ‘And I would thank you not to hound one of my students.’
A dark expression clouded the truculent features of Friar Robert Fordam.
‘Those who will not hear the truth are certainly not counted in the Chosen. And I did not force the truth upon this youth. It was he who followed me in his search for the right path.’
‘It's true, Master,’ blurted out the boy. ‘I was told the friar was in Oxford and I wanted to hear his message.’
Falconer brushed Fordam aside and gently but firmly grasped Pett by the arm. He pulled him away from the friar.
‘The only message you should pay attention to is what is taught you in the Schools. Learn and then make up your own mind.’
He put his arm around Pett's shoulder and went to walk him away. The friar stood framed in the arch of Little Gate, a blood red sun hanging over his left shoulder. He thundered a final warning to the susceptible youth.
‘In Revelation, John warns us of a beast which rises from the earth. It resembles the Lamb, but speaks like a demon. It performs miracles and deludes the inhabitants of the earth. But it is brought down and chained by the Angels of Heaven. Look closely at those who lead you astray with seductive lies. Soon the evil Pope Alexander will die and then the Day of Judgement will be upon us.’
He slammed the gate shut behind him, and to Hugh Pett it could have been the gates of Heaven closing, with him on the wrong side.
Thomas de Cantilupe thought Humphrey Segrim was a very nervous man and he didn't know why. However, the man was, it seemed, intimate with people in the King's retinue. So the Chancellor-elect would do all he could to help him. Segrim had already intimated that de Cantilupe might be considered to join a select band of men who were working actively in the interests of the King. De Cantilupe was thus anxious to prove his worth.
‘I can assure you that all the students known to have been involved in yesterday's outrage are now incarcerated in the Great Keep. I await instruction from the King as to what should be done with them.’
Segrim paced up and down the stone floor of de Cantilupe's temporary residence, the fresh rushes crackling under his feet. His anxiety transmitted itself to the other man, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Or perhaps it was the hair shirt that de Cantilupe habitually wore that caused his present discomfort. He wore it to remind him of the pains of the world, and to punish him for taking pleasures where others could not - pleasures like good food and wine, to which he was particularly susceptible. The Chancellor-elect had a thin face with a hooked Roman nose and flushed cheeks. He kept the expression on it now as solemn as possible, though he ached for the excellent meal his cook had prepared him, which was rapidly spoiling. He had been at the table surveying the steaming meat-balls when old Halegod anxiously announced the unexpected arrival of Humphrey Segrim. De Cantilupe sadly cast his eye on the fancifully decorated balls covered in yellow and green batter, served up with onions and beans, and pushed himself back from the table. Now he recalled the meal and wondered if it could be saved. He spurred the other man on.
‘Perhaps you know of the King's wishes in this matter?’
Segrim stopped his pacing and stood over the Chancellor- elect, large and menacing. A sly smile forced itself to his lips.
‘Not at this moment. But I can enquire - the King is in Abingdon with the L
ord Bishop still. I shall send a messenger to discover His Majesty's wishes. In the meantime, I think I'll have a word with the constable. What's his name?’
De Cantilupe knew that Segrim was well aware of the name but feigned ignorance of such menials. He furnished Peter Bullock's name, and Segrim wrapped his fur-trimmed robe around his large frame and left. The Chancellor-elect hurried to his kitchens, in the fading hope that the food would still tempt his discerning palate.
Falconer led a life a little more frugal than either de Cantilupe or Humphrey Segrim. He earned twelve pence a year for each of his series of lectures, and there was an income to be made from the students lodging in Aristotle's Hall. But his rents left him with little to satisfy even his simple pleasures. However, he did not care greatly for the mundane and physical, when other stimulating matters were available to tempt his mind. He had sent Hugh Pett out to risk the unruly atmosphere of Oxford in the evening to see if he could uncover the whereabouts of the missing student, William Coksale. While he waited, he occupied his mind with sifting through Friar Bacon's papers.
Once again the paper on the waking trance seemed to draw his fingers to it, and he reread the crabbed text, painstakingly written by his absent friend in circumstances Falconer could not imagine. It seemed that, by using a magical intonation and making certain passes with the fingers, a susceptible person could be induced to carry out acts they were incapable of in a waking state. Although the victim was in a trance, he seemed to be alert and normal in every way, until a magic word was spoken or a certain circumstance occurred. Then the victim carried out the wishes of the trance-maker.
Something hovered around the back of Falconer's skull, buzzing like a fly on raw meat. It was about to disappear when Hugh Pett thrust his head around the door of Falconer's chamber. Before the youth could speak, Falconer remembered.
‘The friar from London!’
The young man looked puzzled and hesitated to disturb his master.
‘Hugh, don't hang around the door. You've just reminded me of something that was threatening to drive me mad if it had not come to me.’
Pett still did not know to what his master referred. But he was used to his strange moods.
‘Anyway, tell me if your errand has been successful. Have you found Coksale?’
‘I cannot be sure, but ...’
Hugh hesitated, and Falconer urged him on.
‘Come, don't be shy. Tell me what you have discovered.’
‘Well, I have not checked this for myself, but I have searched everywhere he might otherwise be with no success.’
He grinned broadly, and Falconer noticed for the first time that he looked a little dishevelled.
‘I will not tell you the number of taverns I have been in tonight.’
‘I thought you looked somewhat flushed. I will discipline you later for that transgression. In the meantime . ?’
‘I had almost given up, but decided to go back to his lodgings. One of his friends at Hart Hall says he always turns to St Frideswide when in trouble. So, if he's not in hiding in some friend's clothes chest, or burying his head in some ale jug, I can only suggest—’
Falconer interrupted.
‘That he is in the church not a hundred yards from where we are now. Thank you, Hugh.’
Pett smiled shyly and retreated from the room, before Falconer could remember about his drinking escapade.
Although it was dark outside, and Oxford was not an entirely safe place at night, Falconer resolved to find Coksale immediately. Anyway, the Regent Master had not always been a man purely of the mind and could defend himself. He was used to nocturnal ramblings, and had not yet been assaulted by a nightwalker. He guessed that Coksale on the other hand would now be cold, hungry and extremely afraid - an admirable combination to make the youth succumb to Falconer's questioning. A quick trip to the kitchen to retrieve some leftovers from supper, and he would be ready.
He had already gathered a number of truths, and needed some time to compare one with another until the greater truth, deduced and not given, emerged. His immersion in Aristotelian logic had furnished him with a method for solving crimes, and his fondness for discovering the truth gave him the cause to make use of it. He wondered if his chance discovery of the waking trance in Bacon's papers also provided a truth. Already he thought he saw how Friar Fordam entranced his audience. However, that seemed to have nothing to do with the death of the Bishop's master of cooks. Or not directly at least. He did wonder about one of the students he had seen apparently entranced. He, and therefore the friar, could be closely involved with the murder. But he needed more information first, and perhaps Coksale could help him with that.
The to and fro of messengers had piqued Ann Segrim's curiosity. As she heard her husband retiring to his room, which was the only other private chamber in this spartan house, she arranged to appear at her door as if meeting him by accident on the upper landing. He stopped abruptly before her, resembling a rearing horse startled by a snake. She hoped he thought of her as a harmless grass-snake.
‘I did not see you at supper.’
‘I had business to transact with de Cantilupe, who is to be the new Chancellor of the University.’
Segrim was his usual curt self, especially when it came to business. He did not consider it fitting for a woman to be involved in men's affairs. Ann realized that to achieve her aim would not be easy, and linked her arm with her husband's, drawing him into her private chamber. A look of curiosity on his face was soon replaced with a sly, lascivious sneer. She hoped she could discover what she wanted before she gave him occasion to think she was offering to share his bed. Seating him comfortably in the chair close to the fire, she called her maid and enquired of her husband if he wished something to drink. Segrim had a good cellar of wine from Poitou, and the maid was despatched on an errand to fetch some.
Ann began her interrogation as a dutiful wife enquiring about the running of the estate. Not that she wanted or expected to be given too much information. To enquire showed obedience, to expect a sensible reply betokened shrewishness. Anyway, Ann Segrim discovered all she needed to know about the running of Humphrey's estate from his clerk. She smiled sweetly as her husband plied her with assurances of the smooth running of all his affairs. This she knew was contrary to the truth. Under gentle pressure from her, his clerk had recently expressed a fear that much of the income of the estate was disappearing elsewhere - so much so that it could be ruinous in a year or two. Ann needed to know what was happening to the money before he, and therefore she, became a pauper.
As her maid poured Segrim a cup of wine, in goodly measure thanks to the unspoken glance from Ann to the servant, she asked in her usual ingenuous tone about the recent activity in the courtyard. The childish timbre of her voice irritated her, but served to put Humphrey off his guard. He could not conceive of his wife as being devious, or having the wit to unravel the affairs of men. Besides, given the chance, he was inclined to boast to her of his connections. A foolish grin spread over his face, and he took a deep draught of Poitou to keep up the suspense. Finally, he could not restrain his pleasure.
‘I have been in touch with His Majesty the King at Abingdon.’
Ann's eyes rounded in genuine surprise. Her husband had never been so ambitious before. Seeing that she was impressed, he was moved to continue.
‘I am involved with a group of very important people, who are intimately concerned with ensuring the wishes of the
King are carried out. Naturally I cannot give you their names, but suffice it to say that they are all men of the King's court.’
In self-important tones, he did make clear that this party required funds, which he was well able to supply, and that preferment was assured. Ann knew the former was not true, and was certain the latter could not be relied on. But Humphrey pressed ahead.
‘Of course, His Majesty is a little unworldly and sometimes we have to make decisions that he must be protected from. These unruly students, for instance. We have deci
ded that something drastic needs to be done, if the Bishop is to be mollified.’
At this point he slumped back in his chair and smiled secretively into his empty wine cup. Ann sighed, and began to assess whether she needed to know more. And whether finding out was worth suffering the drunken gropings of her husband. The church of St Frideswide was icy cold, and the spring evening had descended into darkness. The massive stone pillars supporting the great rounded arches of the nave cast heavy shadows swallowing the fitful light of tallow candles on the altar. Falconer sat in the body of the nave apparently oblivious to these discomforts. He was humming a tune he had recently heard his students singing, the words of which seemed to fit the circumstances of yesterday. He softly sang the first few lines:
’Roma caput mundi est
Sed nihil capit mundum ...”
As he mouthed the words, he unwrapped the cloth he had on his lap to reveal a hunk of bread and some ripe cheese. He broke off a corner of the bread and chewed contentedly on it, still humming the irreverent song. He showed no surprise when a figure slipped out of the gloom of the north transept and sat hesitantly at the opposite end of the bench.
‘William. You must be famished.’
He pushed the cloth bundle of food along the length of the wooden bench. For a moment, William Coksale just looked, then hungrily grabbed the bread. As he ate, Falconer began to talk gently to the fugitive student.
The crypt must be a chilly place, even in the spring.’
Coksale nodded ruefully, his mouth full of cheese.
‘And the sole company of the revered saint's body may be a comfort, but hardly conducive to good conversation. Tell me what happened, and I promise I will help you.’
