Falconer's Judgement

by Ian Morson

Falconer realized that the Bishop had confirmed the resemblance to the dead man. He now understood why the Bishop had appeared to be at both the front and rear entrances of the guest hall at Oseney Abbey in different garb at almost the same moment.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not know the master of cooks had been your brother. I naturally assumed that being in such a position he was ...’

  The Bishop supplied the words.

  ‘Of lower rank? But you see in my position I needed someone I could trust to taste my food. Especially recently. And who better than my own brother?’

  He explained to Falconer that since his arrival in England several attempts had been made on his life. Now the only person he trusted totally had been killed.

  ‘Of course there are those who told me my brother was not to be trusted either. I have even had the cautionary tale of Cain and Abel thrust at me as an example. "And he was jealous of God's pleasure with his brother's offering." Oh yes. But I have known Sinibaldo since his birth. How long have they known him?’

  The Bishop rose from his seat and Falconer realized his brief audience was at an end. As they walked towards the door, Falconer asked which of his guests had absented themselves during their audience with him at Oseney. Otho was puzzled by the question, but named all the supplicants and affirmed that no one had left before the affray. Suddenly there was a clamour from the other room and the Bishop's secretary burst in, ashen-faced. Otho crossed to Boniface and leaned over as the little man whispered urgently into his ear. A strange look crossed the heavy features of the Bishop, and he turned to Falconer with an apology.

  ‘I am sorry - you must leave now. I have had some . terrible news. We have just now been informed that His Holiness Pope Alexander is dead. I must go and pray for his soul.’

  As Falconer was ushered back down the seemingly endless corridor, he could not help but ponder on the look on the Bishop's face as he had learned of the death of the Pope. Not horror, or sadness, merely naked ambition.

  Leaving the messenger to carry his doleful news to the rest of the kingdom, Richard de Sotell, the Dominican Friar- Senior, offered up a short prayer and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard of the death of Pope Alexander. Looking out of his austere cell over the island between Trill Mill stream and the Thames, he pondered on the early days when his order arrived in Oxford. They had settled in the heart of Jewry and eagerly sought converts. They had cheerfully made enemies of the lazy monks at Oseney Abbey, and spread their preaching across the countryside. It had all seemed so simple.

  Then the Franciscans had arrived, and challenged their position of pious superiority. As a young friar he recalled generously housing and feeding the first Franciscans to enter Oxford. They had shared a fellowship in God - until the Minorites tried to outdo his order in humility and poverty.

  ‘Bare feet and mean garments, indeed,’ murmured the ancient friar to no one but the birds who fluttered below his window picking up the spilt grain from the mill. He far preferred the company of the beasts of the field and the birds of the air. He leaned against the rough stone of the window frame and rubbed his chest as the stabbing pain clutched at him again. In a few moments it was gone and he breathed easier, pondering what the Pope's death meant for his order.

  The two orders' battle for the moral ascendancy had led to a condemnation of the power and wealth of the Pope and all his representatives. The old man found this an uncomfortable doctrine to live with. Not so his younger brethren, who happily espoused a dislike of anything related to the indulgence of the Papacy. Perhaps the death of Alexander would keep hot-heads like Robert Fordam quiet for a while - at least until they had another focus for their hate elected. He must tell the young man the news as soon as he could find him.

  The trip from Abingdon to Wallingford had been completed with hardly a word passing between the two men. Falconer had briefly told Bullock the news about the Pope, then had lapsed into silence. Bullock recognized the man's habitual method of sorting the truths he had collected and kept quiet also. In fact he was regretting the ample repast he had managed to scrounge from the Bishop's servants. Each lurch of his horse threatened to deprive him of the meal. He was glad when the walls of Wallingford Castle came into view, especially as the day was well advanced. But an extended interview might still necessitate staying in the town overnight.

  The castle's dark-stained walls were a depressing sight to the Regent Master. The whole squat and lugubrious pile seemed to be sinking under its own weight into the ground on which it stood. It must have been an awful prospect to the students doomed to be incarcerated in it. Falconer was glad he had brought Peter Bullock with him. The constable's presence gave him some legal standing when he asked of the warden of Wallingford Castle to see the students who had been transferred from Oxford.

  At first the old warrior was reluctant to allow anyone to see his charges. But Peter Bullock took him to one side and carried on a murmured conversation that Falconer could not catch. Unlike at Abingdon, here it was the constable who gained entry. But this time both men were given access to those they wished to see.

  As they were led down a dank, gloomy passage, the old man kept glancing at the Regent Master with a look of contempt on his face. As he fumbled with his keys at an ancient barred door, Falconer pulled Bullock to one side and asked him quietly how he had persuaded the reluctant warden to admit them.

  ‘No doubt the same way you did at Abingdon.’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘And so did I.’ He laughed. ‘I told him you were enamoured of the Welshman and had threatened to kill yourself if you could not see him again.’

  Falconer hooted with laughter, and the old man looked over his shoulder with a gaze of pity for this madman. Bullock went on.

  ‘Of course he would have let you finish yourself off there and then. And offered you his sword to do it with. What really persuaded him was the coin I slipped in his palm.’

  The warden's trembling hands at last negotiated the unlocking of the door that led to the dungeons. On the other side, two or three tallow lamps burned fitfully, constantly threatening to die in the icy wind that blew through the open door. Water cascaded off the walls at weak points in the stonework. The river was nearby, and they were now below its level. Falconer heard weary voices behind the nearest door, crying out for food. He felt sorry for the young men, who were learning a harsh lesson about power and authority.

  ‘The Welshman?’ croaked the old man, asking for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, John Gryffin, the Welshman,’ said Bullock, used to the terse nature of those who worked in the same drab business as himself. The warden crooked an already talonlike finger and led them on.

  ‘He's on his own. Lucky boy has the best accommodation we can offer.’

  Falconer realized the old man considered this a joke when a rictus of a grin crossed his lined face, and a strange wheezing noise escaped his toothless mouth. He was still laughing when he swung open the door of the Welshman's cell.

  John Gryffin was in no fit state to appreciate the joke. At first neither Falconer nor Bullock spotted him. They were looking on the slimy floor of the cell, spread with a thin layer of mouldy straw. It was only when they looked up in puzzlement they saw the shape hanging from a beam that ran the width of the tiny cell. John Gryffin's face was an inhuman mask. His eyes were popping out of his head, his features a livid red as though he were straining mightily to lift an impossible load. His mouth was thrown open in a silent cry for help. A cord that formerly must have held his tunic tight at his waist was stretched between his neck and the beam. It creaked as the body swayed in the breeze caused by the opening of the cell door.

  For a few moments everyone stood still, like a tableau in a miracle play. Then Bullock leapt forward, his knife in his hand to cut the youth down. Gently he cradled him in his arms and brought John Gryffin back to earth, but he knew he was already dead. The corpse was cold.

  The Fourth Seal

  In the year 1248 strange fires throughout t
he lands of Europe reduced many towns to ashes. The cathedral of Saint Peter in Cologne was destroyed, as were countless towns in France and Normandy. In England, much of Newcastle was destroyed by fire, without cause from heat or drought. Monstrous births were reported. On the Isola Vectis a mannikin of perfect proportions was seen who, in his eighteenth year, was only three feet tall. In the Welsh borders a giant was born who at six months had all his teeth and was as large as a seventeen year old. Thus was the Fourth Seal broken, which Revelation tells us caused the appearance of another horse, sickly pale. On its back was Death with the power to kill with pestilence and wild beasts.

  From the Chronica Oseneiensis

  Chapter Seven

  What's all the fuss about? The fool killed himself, didn't he?’ The old warden's lip trembled at the thought he might lose a lucrative living over this death. ‘It will save the King money, keeping him locked up.’

  His two visitors still knelt beside the cold body of John Gryffin. The obvious conclusion was that the boy had killed himself out of a sense of shame and guilt. But the ever suspicious Falconer had carefully scrutinized the body, and particularly the ligature around its neck. Delicately pulling the coarse cord from around the unfortunate student's throat, he peered closely at the livid mark he found underneath. Taking Bullock's arm, he pulled him down and pointed. It was clear that there was a much thinner red line around the circumference of his whole neck, marked at regular intervals with circular discoloration. Falconer rose to his feet.

  ‘It is obvious that this cord was not the cause of his death.’ He fingered the lengthy waist band, which had clearly been wound twice around the waist. ‘He was strangled with something much finer.’

  The warden blanched at the thought of someone in his custody being murdered - and not by the proper authorities. Falconer continued.

  ‘Anyway, look around you. There is not so much as a stool in this cell.’ He cut off the warden's protests with a sweep of his hand. As though the fool need excuse the foul conditions in which he held his prisoners. Anyway, this one no longer cared. He stared at the body on the slimy, cold ground.

  ‘My point is, the beam is too high for him to have reached up, attached the rope, then put the noose around his neck.’

  ‘He could have thrown the rope over,’ the old man responded feebly.

  ‘What, and then pulled himself up by the neck and held on until he had strangled himself?’ Falconer's response was scornful. The important issue now was to discover the murderer.

  Falconer had thought to begin by gently coaxing the frightened man into providing the necessary information. But Bullock was impatient, and thrust the startled Falconer aside. Grasping the old man's greasy jerkin with his calloused hands, he shoved him against the clammy wall, with a force that Falconer feared would snap his brittle bones.

  ‘You must tell me who has been in these cells since the Oxford students arrived.’

  Despite his crooked back, Peter Bullock's upper body was powerful, and he used it to the fullest effect to intimidate the old warden. His previous comradely treatment of the man was now entirely absent. The old fool did not deserve to be considered an equal. Bullock now stood towering over him, holding his fist in the man's terrified face. Spittle dribbled out of the warden's toothless mouth as he reviewed the failures of his custodial duties.

  ‘There was some noble lord who came soon after they arrived. Said he was on the King's business. It was he who told me to put the Welshman into a separate cell. Said he was dangerous.’

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  Bullock twisted the man's jerkin tight until he began to choke. With a cough, he spat out the name.

  ‘Segrim.’

  ‘And who else?’

  The warden fought to control a coughing fit, and nervously wrapped his bony fingers around his neck. He decided there was no point in hiding the truth - he had already been well paid for turning a blind eye.

  ‘This morning, some priest came. Wanted to console the students, he said. Who am I to keep someone from their communion with God?’

  ‘A priest? What sort?’

  ‘What do you mean, what sort?’ The old man was getting nervous again - this time the crooked-back man would surely kill him. But he really didn't know what he wanted.

  ‘A monk, a friar, a bishop?’

  The warden laughed edgily.

  ‘Not a bishop! It must have been a friar.’

  Falconer's eyes glinted.

  ‘Or a monk. What's the difference?’

  While Falconer and Bullock were carrying out their exasperating interrogation of the warden, Guillaume de Beaujeu was spurring his way back to Oxford. His time in Wallingford had been well spent, and he now understood who were his enemies in the battle for the Papacy. It might be that the heart of the conflict lay hundreds of miles away in Rome, but the long arms of conspiracy spread all over Christendom. And nowhere more so than in England, here and now. His instructions from the Grand Master had been specific, but Guillaume was always his own man. He carried out his own assessment of the benefits to his order of one side or the other in such a crucial struggle, and saw no conflict with his vow of obedience. His obedience was to the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon, and the Grand Master was only one individual in a long line. Besides, he had desires to be Grand Master himself soon.

  He cursed the two days' delay he had incurred in London, due to the inattention of the master of the Temple commanderie. If he had arrived sooner things might have gone differently at Oseney Abbey. Nevertheless he did not regret now having to fall back on his own resources. He preferred to perform a solitary role in all his undertakings. That way, he had no one to blame but himself if things went awry. Not that they ever did - he was a careful, calculating man. When luck came his way, he used it, but did not rely on it. He had been lucky to find the warden of Wallingford Castle fast asleep at his post, no doubt tired out by a busy and disrupted night incarcerating the Oxford students. How easy it had been to borrow his keys. And his luck had held, when he found the Welshman in a cell all on his own.

  Guillaume de Beaujeu rode into Oxford through South Gate just as darkness fell. Regent Master Falconer and his companion were not so lucky and had to stay in a squalid inn at Wallingford for the night. This gave Falconer much time to brood over his investigations, but he was unable to find the greater truth of who murdered both the Welshman and the Papal Legate's master of cooks. The tapestry of events had too many loose ends hanging for him to be able to see the full picture. His restless mind wove the cloth in many different ways through the night, as Bullock snored unconcerned by his side. Just as dawn broke through the unglazed window of their shabby bedchamber, he dozed off. His dream was of wandering down endless passageways in the King's residence, desperately trying to reweave the opulent tapestries draped on the walls, which all fell into unconnected strands at his feet.

  Brother John Darby awoke early and hurried through his morning prayers at prime. He chose to excuse himself from the daily meeting in the chapter house where rules were read and the daily administration of the abbey settled. The morning light was bright and clear, and he wanted to spend as much time as he could in the Scriptorium today. There was much to record in the Oseney Abbey Chronicles, and he had let enough time elapse for the events of the year so far to form a coherent whole. The news of the death of Pope Alexander was the culminating factor in his decision to note down a few succinct and considered sentences in the vast tome he kept always on his personal desk.

  He scurried across the open courtyard that a few days earlier had been the scene of the students' despicable behaviour. The day felt fresh and the sun glinted off the streams and pools that were scattered across the low water- meadows between the abbey and the walls of Oxford. It was so early that a little mist was rising from the open meadow, and Brother John had the fanciful notion that the abbey was somehow set adrift from the harsh world of the common crowd inhabiting the city. He smiled, and
wondered whether he would miss the outside world if the abbey was truly set adrift from it, to sail through paradise.

  Climbing the stairs to his own personal domain of the Scriptorium, he shook his head ruefully to clear the foolish ideas from his mind. He had spent so long in observing and recording the world and its events, he could hardly abandon it now. Especially when some were predicting the Millennium. His footsteps echoed across the floor of the empty room as he walked through the dust motes sparkling in the sunlight from the high windows. He liked to be already at work when the monk-copyists in his charge arrived. It set them a good example, and pandered to what little vanity he possessed.

  Stepping up to the raised dais that was his place of work, he opened the heavy leather-bound tome that lay permanently on his desk top. The outer surface of the book was smooth and shiny where his hands and those of his predecessors had caressed it lovingly. The work inevitably began with the Creation, and Brother John Darby was the third monk to carry on the recording of history for the abbey. He fancied he was the most accurate, especially as he insisted on being the only person to summarize each year as it occurred. His predecessors had let several hands make the summaries of yearly events. He turned to the back of the tome and withdrew the loose pages on which he was making the notes for 1261. He briefly scanned those he had already made.

  ‘Louis, the oldest son of the King of France, is reported dead.’

  Next to this there was a note in the margin reminding him to verify the exact date. He read on.

  ‘The quarrel continues between King Henry and the barons because he refuses to observe the Provisions of Oxford. On Ash Wednesday terrible lightning and thunder was heard at Westminster. ’

  He carefully selected a new quill, and cut the end to a bold wedge. The ink on the desk had already been freshly mixed by the novice whose duty it was to precede even Brother John's arrival. The youth carried out his duties immediately after matins while the sky was still dark. Dipping the quill into the ink, he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, then wrote after the last words, cutting confident black shapes into the creamy paper.