by Ian Morson
The Templar had sent a message to the Archbishop which he knew would ensure the man's attention. Predictably, Aethelmar now emerged from the inner rooms, his face as white as a sheet. He bustled over to de Beaujeu and began to speak, though his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. The Templar calmly put his finger to his lips, and nodded at the servant hovering behind the fat bishop. Waving away Boniface, who had been entrusted with delivering de Beaujeu's short message, Aethelmar stuttered a few words.
‘What do you know of Mildred?’
De Beaujeu's face was impassive.
‘And who are you?’
‘Let us just say the Temple of Solomon is my home. And through that I know that Mildred is dead.’
There was a pause while Aethelmar's mind raced as he considered the choices open to him. Did the Templars know anything? Was this just a bluff?
The man spoke again, his voice cold and impersonal.
‘And who killed her. And in what circumstances.’
Aethelmar began to bluster, but his pale face betrayed his concern.
‘And why should that be any business of mine? Did I say I knew anyone called Mildred?’
‘You have no need to say anything. But I shall say something, to convince you of the scope of my knowledge. Of course, I may have to say it also in the presence of your sister-in-law, or even the King, if this interview has an
unsatisfactory result. The facts are these - Mildred was twelve years old, and when the body was buried, it was unclothed and showed . ’
‘Enough.’
Aethelmar shuddered, and his face was covered in sweat as though he were gripped by a fever. His stubby fingers rubbed at his jaw, down which spittle ran from his quivering lips.
‘What is it you want, this satisfactory result?’
‘Only an audience with the Papal Legate.’
Aethelmar gasped.
‘I cannot do that. You would ...’
He left the thought unspoken, and began another.
‘I would be going against the King's express wishes, and if he were to find out ..."
Once again, he could not find the strength to say what was on his mind. But he fingered his fat neck nervously, as though already feeling the stroke that would sever his head from his body. De Beaujeu was calm but relentless.
‘How would he discover your complicity? Of course, if you preferred him to discover some other information . ’
This time, de Beaujeu left his thought unspoken. But it was clear to the Archbishop what his choice was now, and he made it.
‘It may take some time. To arrange the audience.’
‘I can wait, but not too long.’
Chapter Ten
Falconer had hurried back from his morning lecture and sought the seclusion of his room. He needed to blend the involvement of the Chancellor-to-be into the plot he was imagining around the person of Humphrey Segrim. His mind was racing and he sought to suppress his flights of fancy with a controlled scientific exercise on another topic altogether.
He had got Hugh Pett to boil down the carcass of a chicken and supply him with all the bones. They now lay on the table in front of him in a bewildering jumble and he toyed with them absently. The faint aroma of chicken flesh still clung to them and Falconer's mouth watered, although he fancied his sense of smell was dulled. He hoped his involuntary immersion in the stream the other night was not going to result in a fever. Anyway, he thought, the meat had already made a good broth for the twenty students in Aristotle's Hall and was now but a memory. Falconer licked his fingers and began to concentrate on laying out the bones in the order they had occupied in the living bird.
He was impressed by their lightness compared to human bones and wondered again if he would ever understand the concept of flight so as to allow a man to fly. It was Roger Bacon who had encouraged him in this quest. Recalling the papers from his friend, he was about to turn to his storage chest where they lay when there came a thunderous knocking on the main door below. Cursing the disturbance of his thought processes, both on flight and on the murders, Falconer descended the creaking staircase to find out who was so anxious to see him.
Grumbling, he flung the heavy door open and before he could react was grasped firmly by both arms. In front of him stood the grim figure of a soldier dressed in a bright red tunic that covered a shirt of light chain mail. Either side of him, expertly pinioning his arms, was a soldier similarly garbed. There seemed no point in struggling, so Falconer kept his temper.
‘If you've come for tutelage, the lecture is over. You'll have to come back tomorrow morning. So if you don't mind, I'll bid you good-day.’
The man in charge was clearly not impressed by his humour and grunted his orders.
‘You're to come with us.’
The other two pulled him firmly forward out of the doorway. Even Falconer's poor eyes could tell that the lane was strangely silent. And yet the sun was high, and the day only half gone. There should have been the normal bustle of passers-by. Indeed he could hear the distant shouts of traders and argumentative students coming from the High Street, which served only to make the silence close around him all the more eerie.
As he was hustled along under the walls of the city towards East Gate, he could see that there were strategically placed soldiers in red tunics at each end of the lane where Aristotle's stood. It was clear nobody was going to be allowed to interrupt his abduction. His heart pounded in his chest, and he was beginning to get worried. With no one to observe his disappearance, who could he hope would provide his salvation? Perhaps he should cry out when they reached the gates of the city. Someone must see him and report such an unusual incident. At the top of the lane, by the gates, stood another soldier with the reins of six horses in his hands. The man's face was dark-skinned and a huge grin split his leathery features, clearly indicating his pleasure that the little exercise had been accomplished successfully.
Falconer was no lightweight, but his captors hoisted him with apparent ease on to the back of one of the horses. He screwed round in the saddle to look for someone in the street to whom he could appeal. It seemed that every face was turned away from him, and he was confronted with the incongruous image of a cheerful, sunlit High Street filled with ordinary people going about their business as if nothing was amiss. And for them, nothing was. They were not being abducted by a group of silent and efficient soldiers, and carried off to an unknown fate. His horse was slapped on the rump by the grim-faced soldier and they careered under the arch of the gateway and out of Oxford.
Peter Bullock hurried away from the Golden Cross Inn, very anxious to speak to Falconer. He lumbered across the High Street, ignoring the stench from the open sewage channel in the middle and the cries of the shopkeepers alike. His mind was set on what he had discovered in the baggage of the mystery man who was dogging the Regent Master's footsteps. The sun was high in a clear blue sky and the familiar smells of the city were trapped by the stillness of the heat. Bullock should have felt comforted by the stink of humanity, draped around him like a cloak. The sweet smell of sweat on a working man reminded him of his days as a soldier, toiling side by side with men who depended on each other to survive. Even, God save him, the acrid smell of piss spoke to him of camps and comradeship.
But now these everyday smells did not enter his thoughts. His mind was churning over the items he had unearthed at the Golden Cross. It had been simple to gain access to the man's room, even though the landlord had been unusually frightened. Apparently the man had insisted on a room that could be locked, and had kept what he thought was the only key. Bullock knew any landlord worth his salt had a spare key, and a threat no longer to turn a blind eye to watered- down beer had persuaded this landlord to allow Bullock in. And the threat of revealing the landlord's duplicity would ensure he kept his mouth shut when the stranger returned.
At first there had seemed very little to see. A straw-filled mattress lay atop the low wooden bunk, and the remains of a simple meal were stacked
neatly on the rickety table. A plain chair was the only other ornament to the otherwise empty chamber. No doubt there were plenty of cockroaches to keep the man company at night, but there was little to betray his purpose.
In the farthest corner lay a leather satchel of the sort that could be slung over the haunches of a horse. Bullock decided to see what it contained. But first he shut the door on the anxious face of the Golden Cross's landlord. Crossing the room, he was reminded of his own days as a man-at- arms. The neatness of the stacked pots and the lack of clothes that you might expect to find scattered around the room, suggested to him a man ready to move at a moment's notice. Or at a clarion call to arms. With interest he sat on the end of the bed and hefted the large and supple satchel on to his knees. He untied the cords that held the flap down and poked his hand inside. At first it was disappointing. There was merely a change of clothes - some leggings and a neat but anonymous tunic. He placed them carefully on the bed, folded as they had been in the bag. The stranger was so tidy, he would inevitably notice if his baggage had been riffled by someone else. Beneath was a garment of more interest - a suit of light chain mail. This confirmed for Bullock that he was dealing with someone with a noble background and battle experience. In his day a heavy banded mail coat of links of iron sewn on to leather had been common. It had been awkward and restricting in battle. More recently, the lighter interlinked chain mail had found favour with the true warrior. Someone at the centre of a battle needed freedom of action, not like those courtly knights who sat at the back of skirmishes like stuffed dummies with as much mobility as a Norman tower.
He thought he had gleaned all he safely could, and he was carefully restoring the clothes to their original position when his clumsy fingers snagged in what he at first surmised was a split in the seam of the leather. Except underneath his fingers he could hear the crackle of parchment or paper.
* * *
Ann Segrim impatiently fingered the gold ornaments she was offered by the smith. After her conversation with Ralph Harbottle at Oseney Abbey, she was more anxious than ever to find William Falconer and talk to him. What she had inadvertently learned about the monk, Brother Talam, and his trip to Wallingford could be vital to his investigations. And to her seeking the truth about her husband's activities. However, she had her servant, Sekston, in tow and could not be sure that he would not report any meeting back to her husband. She would have to get rid of him somehow.
First she had to go through the pretence of selecting some jewellery, which had been her original pretext for visiting Oxford. The goldsmith was an obsequious but persistent man, who kept thrusting something else at her every time she considered but declined one of his offerings. She did like his work but did not want to buy - nor could she afford it, if the truth were known.
At last she managed to convince him that there was nothing she wanted, and returned his final piece, a rather nice gold brooch of modern design. The man looked downcast as she left the shop and walked down the main street dogged by urchins. Her servant followed close behind and cuffed the urchins away with a series of swift blows to their lice- ridden heads. She walked nearly to East Gate before she turned abruptly and, with the demeanour of an indecisive wife, thrust some coins at Sekston.
'I really want that brooch after all. Go and see if he will reduce his price for me.’
Sekston protested that he could not leave her alone, but Ann stifled his objections with an imperious look. He shrugged and did as he was told. Perhaps she did have an assignation with a lover. If so, she wasn't about to tell of his dereliction of duty, and he might even have time to enjoy a few ales before returning. She certainly looked keen to be rid of him. He just wondered who the lucky man was.
As Sekston's back disappeared in the crowd, Ann looked for someone who might be able to help her find the Regent Master. Seeing someone dressed in the same garb as Falconer across the street, she resolved to ask him where the latter lived. How likely it was he knew the man she sought, she did not know, but then she had to make a start.
The soberly clad man was deep in conversation with a baker outside his shop. Crossing the street, she heard the end of the conversation, which turned out to be an argument over the price of a loaf. The Master turned away in disgust, clearly not prepared to pay the asking price, and almost bumped into Ann.
He offered his confused apologies, then smiled wryly when asked if perchance he knew of Master Falconer.
‘Who does not?’
His smiling face did not offer any more information, so Ann was forced to ask if he also knew where Falconer lived. As if it were some game of pedantry with one of his students, the man merely nodded. Impatient but not showing it, Ann was ultimately forced to ask where his residence was located. Apparently satisfied that she had framed her question in the appropriate manner, he finally pointed Ann to the nearby alley down which she needed to go to find Aristotle's Hall. She thanked him courteously, though it was more than he deserved. She left him thinking enviously of Falconer's luck in attracting such a beautiful woman, and recalling the softness of the bosom he had bumped against.
Hurrying down the narrow alley, she started to have second thoughts about her actions. She began to wonder how she would approach Falconer, who might not even remember her from their chance encounter in the walled garden. After all, she had not spoken to him then. The alley was gloomy now, as light could only penetrate between the closely packed houses in the middle of the day. The sun was well past its zenith, and Ann shivered. The man had told her that Aristotle's Hall stood between two lanes running across her path towards East Gate. After crossing the first lane, she came to a dark doorway facing east. She assumed this must be it.
Strangely, the door was ajar and there was no sound from within. She hesitated, not knowing whether to proceed, and called out nervously. There was no response, and steeling her resolve she stepped over the threshold. She was in a large hall at the centre of which stood a heavy, scarred trestle table. It was obviously the survivor of many a carefree repast enjoyed by boisterous students. The top was stained with carelessly spilled ale and wine. Initials had been carved on the surface and smoothed with time. It was redolent of cheerful camaraderie. But the hall was strangely silent.
She called Falconer's name but there was no reply. Then, standing in the midst of the quiet, she thought she heard a returning call from up above. She moved to the rickety wooden staircase that leaned precariously against the side wall close to the door where she had come in. Lifting her by now dusty skirts above the crackling rushes on the floor, she nervously climbed the stairs, step by step.
At the top she stopped again, hearing a muffled call from the door nearest to her. It was slightly ajar, and she could see a beam of sunlight illuminating the room beyond.
‘Master Falconer, are you there?’
Her voice trembled, but this time there was no response. Uncertain, she pushed the door open. The room revealed was a jumble of jars, books and bones - the very lair of a necromancer. But with the door swung wide, it was clearly empty. She stepped across the threshold, enticed by the mixture of sights and smells in the room. She bent to examine the book that lay open on the table, as if it might give some clue to Falconer's whereabouts - and shrieked as a white apparition swooped from the darkest corner and became entangled in her hair. She ducked, blindly swinging her arms above her head in panic. She thought the very Devil had hold of her and she was fighting for her life.
Mercifully she was released as swiftly as she had been taken, and the apparition returned to its corner. She felt her legs give way, and sat down hard on the rough wooden floor. After a few moments, she summoned the courage to look up, and burst out laughing. High on a pole, above a wall splashed with white stains, a barn owl perched preening its ruffled feathers. At her laughter it looked down at her with such solemn eyes that it caused a renewed fit of giggles. With difficulty she gained control and apologized to the bird.
‘Forgive me, Sir Owl, if I laughed at you. You are quite the
most handsome gentleman I've seen, and I am sorry if I mistook you for the Devil. I don't suppose you know where your master is, do you?’
At first she thought the bird had responded when a voice spoke.
‘I would like to know where he is, too.’
Then she realized the voice had come from the doorway, and turned her head to see who it was who also sought the Regent Master. She recognized the burly, hunch-backed frame of the custodian of law in Oxford, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then she remembered she was still sitting on the floor, and blushed to match the colour of her dress. Bullock stepped forward and offered her his hand. She accepted it, and felt the power of his callused grip as she recovered a more seemly position on her feet.
They stood facing each other and there was an awkward silence. Oddly, he appeared to be embarrassed at being found out in Falconer's room by her, rather than the other way round. Ann Segrim spoke first.
‘I came to see Master Falconer, but he appears not to be at home.’
‘So it seems. You should not have left the door open behind you, you know. I am afraid there are too many thieves in the town.’
Ann sought to excuse herself.
‘Oh, but it was already open, or I would not have come in.’
Bullock frowned.
‘Left open? That is unlike Master Falconer. Still, perhaps it was one of his careless students. I shall have to speak to him when he returns.’
After another pause, when there seemed little else to say, he turned to leave. Ann followed him down the creaking stairs, disappointed at having missed the Master. At the front door she waited as Bullock closed it firmly behind him.
