by Ian Morson
The answer is Humphrey Segrim.’
The Chancellor-elect saw his whole future slipping away from him. His power and influence were great but limited to the University. He had wider ambitions and needed the support of the King. Segrim was his link with Henry, so Falconer's statement caused cold tremors to shoot down his spine.
The man was indeed off on a wild-goose chase, but one dangerously close to home. But de Cantilupe could not rein in Falconer's thinking now.
‘And who does Segrim work for? Who is powerful enough to want the Papal Legate out of the way? Why, the King himself.’
The words were out of Falconer's mouth almost before the thought had entered his head. De Cantilupe rose from his chair, beads of sweat standing out on his brow despite the cold room. He turned his back on Falconer and paced up the room. Falconer was about to mention the lordly conspirators he had seen arriving at Segrim's house yesterday, when he suddenly realized who the more soberly dressed figure riding in their wake had been. De Cantilupe was one of them.
The Fifth Seal
In the year 1250, Louis, King of France, began his attack on the Saracens. He had received absolution and blessing from the Pope two years before, upon committing himself to the Crusade. Having landed in Egypt, Louis decided to cross the river called Thanis on Ash Wednesday. Some Templars and other noblemen crossed before him and were exposed to the great host of the heathen army. The King could not come to their help, for he too was surrounded by Saracens. In the battle fought on that day there perished most of the knights of the Temple, William Longspee, Raoul de Coucy, the Count of Artois and many other Christians. In retreat the King himself was captured, suffering from an evil sickness. When the Fifth Seal was broken there was revealed underneath the altar the souls of those who were martyred for God's word. Each of them was given a white robe, and asked to rest a while until all who were to be killed in God's service had joined them.
From the Chronica Oseneiensis
Chapter Nine
The prime bell calling the monks of Oseney Abbey to early Mass could be heard in the manor of Botley. Ann Segrim was already dressed in a long, flowing robe of red, bound tight at her slim waist. She had chosen the dress of light material because it emphasized her shape, and it would help her in what she sought to do today. She sat arranging her hair under the fashionable net that she wore to display her thick blonde tresses. She hated to hide her locks under a wimple.
She looked at herself in the mirror that her husband had bought her in the days when he sought to win her favours. The clear silver glass enclosed in a wooden frame with a horn handle was a rarity in England, and Ann treasured it even though Humphrey had expected a night in her bed in return. She smiled at her own image, the unlined face of a mature woman who could still attract the attention of men. The thought of the Regent Master who had stared at her in the garden passed through her mind. She made her mirror image frown at her in censure. After all, she was a married woman.
On the other hand, she might see him in Oxford today, and a chance meeting could prove fortuitous in her search for the truth about her husband's activities. But her first stop was Oseney Abbey, where she wanted to talk to the monk who had visited her husband yesterday. She knew his name was Talam and that he was the bursar of the abbey. Perhaps she could discover more about her husband's affairs by drawing him out with talk of a donation? Or should she essay the innocent application of her female attractions?
She left her chamber quietly so as not to disturb Humphrey. But when she heard the loud snoring emanating from his room, she tripped more happily down the staircase, the folds of her red robe held high and revealing her ankles. The servant had her horse ready in the yard, together with his own skinny nag. Having assisted her to mount, he clambered on the quivering wreck that was all Humphrey Segrim allowed him and prayed it would survive the journey. The lady Ann was already through the archway and down the road before he had forced the nag into a trot. Not that this mattered too much, for as they travelled he knew to keep at a discreet distance behind his mistress. She liked to think herself free and alone on her rare trips to the city.
The master had been advised that his wife was going to Oxford to select a brooch from the goldsmiths who plied their trade in the shops beneath the Golden Cross Inn. Sekston did not know if that was the true reason or if she had a tryst with another man, and he preferred not to know. It would not be safe to be the conveyor of the news to his master that he was a cuckold. His position depended on being blind, deaf and dumb to his betters' antics at all times.
Peter Bullock could not remember when he had first become suspicious. In a town the size of Oxford, thousands of people passed in front of his eyes. Even so, he was bound to see the same faces time and again in his regular patrols through the narrow lanes. But this face seemed to crop up at particular times in particular places. The man was tall and well built, and his confident manner gave Bullock the impression he was a soldier by trade. His face was tanned, as though he had spent time away from the dull skies and soft sunlight of England and France. His short tunic revealing muscular legs only confirmed him as a man of action.
Only yesterday, Bullock had become aware of the man apparently following in the footsteps of his friend, William Falconer, as he hurried out of his morning lectures. Even then he had spotted him only because he seemed a little out of place in Schools Lane amongst all the young students. As Bullock watched on with interest, the man had followed Falconer down to the High Street. There he had dogged his footsteps as the Regent Master turned west. Bullock had followed both of them to be certain that he was not mistaken. The man might simply have been walking in the same direction. Falconer had left the city through the little-used postern gate under St George's Tower, and his shadow had paused long enough to ensure he was not too close once in open countryside, and gone through also. Bullock marvelled at his ability to merge with his surroundings.
For the rest of the day, the man's appearance niggled at something in Bullock's memory, and he began to imagine he had seen him in all sorts of places. Had it been in the market, emerging from St Frideswide's Church one evening, and near his own courtyard below the Great Keep? He even thought he might have passed him on the road to Wallingford Castle. Having completed his solitary supper, he tried to put the whole idea out of his mind as ludicrous, and slumped into the narrow cot that was his bed. The exposed planks that formed its base usually eased him off to sleep, as they reminded him of nights spent on hard earth as a foot soldier. He had once tried to sleep on a soft mattress filled with straw, but had eventually thrown it out. His body was used to more spartan conditions and he could not retrain it now.
That night the planks seemed full of knots and bumps that dug into his flesh, and the mysterious man haunted his brain. Even the first light of day over the top of the Great Keep did not disperse the image, and he finally decided that he had not been imagining the elusive man's presence. Everywhere William Falconer had gone, the man had been not far behind. Except in one particular instance. In the case of the Wallingford road he had been far ahead. Far enough to have entered the castle and killed John Gryffin before the arrival of the two friends. Bullock sat up in his cot and resolved to solve this mystery on his own, without the intervention of Master William Falconer. Today he would find the man again and discover who he was. Before he perhaps killed his friend.
At the same time that Ann Segrim was tripping past her snoring husband in Botley, Bullock rose from his cot and threw on his clothes. If he stationed himself near Aristotle's
Hall, he stood a good chance of encountering the stranger - if the man really existed, and if he was in fact trailing Falconer. He lumbered through the quiet streets of Oxford, with the traders just stirring and lowering the shutters of their shops. He kept to the narrow lanes near the southern ramparts of the imposing city walls. This way he kept in the shadows with the watery sun barely warming the rooftops. As he passed St Frideswide's Church, he saw a figure ahead of him. Someone was turni
ng down the lane that led to Falconer's hall, also keeping to the shadows. And Bullock knew who it was. A few moments sooner and he would have collided with the man he sought.
Following on more cautiously, he admired the quiet and flowing movements of his adversary. The man could probably walk right up to a deer in the forest without disturbing it. Bullock's heavy frame and bent back could never contrive to move so silently. So he kept well back, and was startled when the man seemed to disappear. Bullock paused, then stepped into a nearby doorway to think without being seen. As he did so, he realized the other man had done exactly the same. Now he was just a shadow in a shadow, waiting for the man he was stalking. And the constable would have to be patient in his turn.
As it turned out, neither the mystery man nor Bullock had long to wait. The lane soon filled with fresh-faced young men, jostling each other as they hurried to their lectures. Though one or two cast a curious eye on the constable pressed into his doorway, no one seemed to notice the other man. This was so evident that Bullock began to wonder if he had been wrong and the man was not there at all. In disgust at his foolishness, he stepped out into the lane and walked towards Aristotle's Hall. Before he had gone a few paces, he saw Falconer coming towards him, his drab black robe flapping around his ankles. He stopped to await his friend, and could scarcely disguise his surprise when the shadow man suddenly appeared behind the Regent Master.
Bullock stood his ground, and was about to hail his friend. But Falconer swept past him as though he hadn't seen the constable. There was an unusually serious expression on the Regent Master's face that clouded his normally alert blue eyes. His look suggested to Bullock a man deep in thought, and although he was annoyed by Falconer's lack of reaction, it suited his present situation. He moved on down the lane, as though his only intent was to ensure there was no trouble from the unruly students. He didn't dare give the shadow man even a sideways glance as he passed. Walking on until he was sure the followed and the follower were out of the lane, he stopped and turned cautiously round. He was relieved to see they were both out of sight.
He scuttled on to the other end of the lane and turned down the narrow alley that ran the length of Aristotle's Hall's eastern side. If he ran, he could intercept the procession as it crossed the High Street and discover what happened after the stranger had observed Falconer safely at his work again. He hurried round behind the crumbling edifice of St Mary's Church and was in time to see the back of the Regent Master disappearing into the room he used to take his students through their paces.
The man seemed resigned to the fact that Falconer was at his work and not going elsewhere. He stood at the doorway for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the High Street. This time Bullock kept close enough not to lose him. The man strolled casually back to the Golden Cross Inn, and after a few minutes emerged from the inn yard on a charger that he spurred towards South Gate. The man carried no extra burden with him, so Bullock assumed he had not left permanently. He smiled in triumph. The man's departure would give him time to examine his baggage and discover something about him.
Ralph Harbottle, Abbot of Oseney, sat back on the stone bench that ran around the cloister and let the morning sun warm his old bones. At this time of the day the sun was low enough to penetrate the arches that spanned the passage round the outer edge of the square, where it would normally be shaded. As he got older, Ralph hated the cold and gloom of each English winter more. His aching limbs begged for warmth, and the other monks knew better than to disturb him on mornings such as these. Banishing the horror of creeping senility, Ralph recalled the time of his own novitiate, nearly forty years ago.
That was in the days of King Henry's minority, a handful of years after the death of John. Then the monks really did work for themselves, not as now. Now the abbey employed labourers to work the farm, and the monks led a life devoid of manual toil. It served only to emphasize the aphorism that the world was divided into three classes - those who fought, those who laboured, and those who prayed. As a novice he had risen soon after midnight and prayed in the chapter house until dawn, when the assembled monks attended prime. The rest of the morning had been taken up in manual labour until terce and another solemn ceremony. After a service and a meal at sext, there had been more manual work to carry out, followed by the sixth service of the day at nones. And he had been brought up on a meatless diet. Only the sick had then been allowed the flesh of other beasts. Now everyone, including himself, who took a fancy for the taste of meat presented themselves as being ill and resorted to the infirmary. Nothing of the old values lasted.
Seeing the old man dozing in the sun, Brother John Darby hesitated, but the visitor had asked to see the Abbot and he could not refuse. The lady Ann Segrim had arrived early at the gates of the abbey, accompanied only by a servant. Darby had chanced to be crossing the main courtyard on his way to the Scriptorium when she had dismounted from her horse. His sense of good fortune had not least been affected by the nature of the lady's dress, which clung to her figure in the light wind. He now led her into the presence of the Abbot, coughing circumspectly to rouse the old man.
More than the cough, the sweet scent of lavender woke Ralph Harbottle, incongruous as it was in this part of the abbey. Seeing the round, ruddy face of Brother John, he was about to castigate the monk for disturbing him when he realized the provenance of the errant scent. He recognized the comely woman with hair the colour of straw as the wife of Humphrey Segrim.
‘Forgive me, Abbot, but this lady wishes to speak with you.’
Ralph sat up on the stone seat and arranged his robes around him, striving to bring his mind back to the present. He motioned for the woman to sit beside him and asked her what she wished to know. Brother John hovered anxiously in the shadow of the arches and Ralph noticed that the monk could not take his eyes off the shape of Ann Segrim. He had not really noticed her well-formed figure until that moment, and sadly supposed that was due to his age rather than his celibate resolve. He suddenly realized that the woman was speaking.
‘I am sorry, child, I fear my mind was elsewhere. What is it you said?’
‘Actually, it was Brother Talam that I wanted to see.’ Her voice to Ralph's ears was light and sweet. ‘On a monetary matter for my husband.’
Before Ralph could respond, Brother John stepped out of the shade, twisting the cord of his habit in his hands.
‘If you will remember, Father, Brother Talam is unwell.’
The Abbot could not recall knowing that Talam was ill, but supposed he had forgotten. Ann Segrim looked crestfallen, and he took her hands in his by way of comforting her. They were soft and unlike any hand that Ralph had held recently. The voice of Brother John persisted like a bee buzzing in the Abbot's ear.
‘Brother Peter has not been himself since the unfortunate death of the Bishop's brother. He seemed most upset by the incident. And his journey to Wallingford the other day did nothing to restore his health.’
‘Wallingford? Did I know that he had gone to Wallingford?’ Ralph was puzzled now. John Darby blushed at having apparently revealed something he should not have. Ann, on the other hand, was keen to hear more. Regent Master Falconer had asked her husband about a murder in Wallingford. Were her interests and his connected through her husband and Brother Talam? The prior was continuing to explain with some embarrassment.
‘He ... he went without your permission. For the best of reasons, I am sure. He wanted to offer spiritual support to the poor students who were involved in the killing. But I think he will deny it if confronted. He is so modest about his good acts, and in this case he is so despondent about his failure with the boy who killed himself. I am sorry for telling you - he swore me to secrecy after I had tried to dissuade him from going.’
Ralph patted Ann Segrim's hands.
‘It would seem your journey has been fruitless. Unless Brother John or I can help? Although if it is to do with money matters, it would be best to speak with Brother Peter when he is ... er ... w
ell again.’
He rose and Ann Segrim got up too, her robe draping elegantly on her full hips. The Abbot seemed disinclined to release Ann's hands, and reiterated his apology.
‘Once again, I am sorry your time has been wasted.’
Ann smiled demurely, extricating her hands from the grip of the Abbot. She was more determined than ever now to see Falconer.
‘Oh, it's not been entirely wasted. I have learned something useful.’
She turned to follow the prior who led her from the cloister, leaving Ralph to return to his dreams of an earlier time and an innocence that no longer existed. He completed the imaginary day from his youth with vespers.
If Guillaume de Beaujeu had sought out Brother Peter Talam that day, he might have been luckier than Ann Segrim. But having also seen the conspirators arriving at Botley from the cover of the walled garden, albeit on the other side from Falconer, he chose to seek out another of the people there. One he recognized without any difficulty. Aethelmar, Archbishop of Winchester, was well known to the Templars as a man with a secret. Indeed probably with many, but there was one that the Templars knew, and what his order knew in general was known by de Beaujeu in particular. Such was the way the order manipulated those in power to its own ends. The secret harked back long before Aethelmar was elevated to the bishopric, long before he and his Lusignan brothers came to England for the protection of their half-brother, the King.
De Beaujeu was patiently waiting in the ante-chamber to the Abbot's quarters in Abingdon. It had not been difficult to discover Aethelmar's presence from the network of spies the Templars employed across England. It had been a pleasant reward to find him so close to the abbey, and the continuing residence there of the Papal Legate made it doubly so. As the Legate had precedence over the Archbishop, the King's quarters were occupied by Bishop Otho, and Aethelmar had taken over the rooms belonging to the Abbot. That unfortunate old man had been relegated to the common dormitory with his monastic brethren.
