by Ian Morson
‘Will you tell Master Falconer that I have some information that may interest him?’
‘When I next see him I will pass on your message, Mistress Segrim.’
Their conversation was strained, and she thanked him and hurried back up the narrow alley to the High Street. So she missed his gloomy, muttered aside.
‘If I ever see him again.’ The object of Bullock's concern was equally worried about his fate. At that very moment he sat on a rough-hewn bench in a bare room that was both dark and cold. It resembled the crypt of a church, with a low stone ceiling that was prevented from bearing down on him by a row of squat pillars arching over his head. A dusty beam of late afternoon light filtered weakly down on him from a narrow slit high in the end arch. The floor was merely packed earth, and was covered with the tracks of scurrying creatures that he felt sure still prowled in the darker recesses of the room. His mood was once again plummeting to the lower depths where he imagined the rats might lurk. Whose hand was behind this, and how far would they go? Would de Cantilupe have acted in this way? Did Segrim think he had uncovered too many secrets to remain alive? None of the soldiers who had brought him here would utter a word to explain who they were acting for.
After snatching him and leaving Oxford through East Gate, the troop had swung round to the south side of the town and had galloped hard towards Wallingford. As Falconer clung on to his swiftly moving mount, he thought of the hapless end John Gryffin had met in the dungeon of the castle there. The reins of his horse were held firmly on either side by two of the stony-faced soldiers. The shanks of their mounts pressed his legs uncomfortably against his horse. He was in effect pinioned on a horse he could not rein in, riding to God knows where, surrounded by determined men who did not care to say what was going to happen to him.
The dust from the road, now dried to a hard pan by days of unusually fine weather, rose in a cloud around the closely packed group of riders. It caught in Falconer's throat, already dry with fear of what was surely to come. He hawked and spat a gobbet of brown dust and phlegm, turning in his saddle to avoid his captors. His aim was poor and the projectile splattered on the clean red surcoat of the soldier on his right. The man seemed unaware as the gobbet slid down, defiling his uniform. Falconer's spirits rose a little at that point.
Not many miles outside Oxford the tight phalanx had wheeled to the right and forded the river with hardly a pause in the horses' stride. The soldiers then followed an unfamiliar track through a heavily wooded landscape. Trees overhung the route, and despite the dry weather the horses had to plough through muddy pools that were splashed up by the flashing hooves. Several times Falconer bent low, along with his captors, to avoid branches that threatened to pluck the riders from their mounts. Despite that, there was no reining back on the speed of their progress.
Eventually they broke out of the woods and thundered down a well-worn track to an imposing group of buildings, dominated by a church and cloisters, on the edge of a substantial settlement. The sun was low and in Falconer's eyes, but the buildings looked familiar. As he was pulled from his mount and bundled through the main courtyard, he suddenly realized he was at the King's hall in the abbey at Abingdon. He had been disorientated by arriving from a different direction than normal, avoiding Nuneham and the main highway. Clearly his captor did not want anyone to know he was here.
* * *
Bullock watched the woman disappear up the lane, and re- entered Aristotle's Hall. He was convinced there was something amiss. Falconer simply would not have left his front door ajar, and none of his young charges was careless enough to do so. He dragged himself back up to Falconer's room and scanned it closely. To the unfamiliar eye, there would have been no difference between how it appeared now and its normal state of disorder. But the scattered bird bones on the table spoke to Peter Bullock of Falconer being interrupted in the midst of his studies. And not being able to return to them. He knew the Regent Master was fanatical about concluding a line of thought, once begun. After all, this trait had often irritated him when they were both engaged on a murder investigation. No, he would not have left the little puzzle of bones incomplete unless he had been forcibly removed.
‘What do you think, Balthazar?’
He looked at the barn owl, who merely returned his quizzical stare.
‘Did you see what happened?’
Balthazar's unblinking eyes gave Bullock no crumb of comfort. Then, oblivious to Bullock's concern, the owl responded to imperatives of his own. He hopped over to the open window arch, launched himself through it, and gracefully flew off to his hunting grounds. He left the constable fingering the document he had purloined from the Frenchman's saddlebag, and wishing Falconer were around to advise him.
The Regent Master was feeling hungry. He seemed to have been forgotten in his private dungeon, and the passage of the feeble ray of light across the dusty floor marked out the length of time he had been ignored. He knew his young students would shortly be returning to the hall for their supper. And meagre though it might be, he longed for what they would now be eating. Thoughts of the stalest bread and flattest ale caused his digestive juices to gurgle in his stomach. Even Balthazar would be on the wing, to begin his silent search for food. How he envied the bird's ability to escape the confinement of four walls. He looked up wistfully at the narrow slit of a window, far beyond his reach. To compound his difficulties, his head was thumping and his throat felt as though it was lined with feathers. Friar Fordam might not have killed him, but by causing him to bathe fully clothed he had ensured the onset of a fever. He cursed his ill-luck, and imagined himself as a Christian martyr entombed until Judgement Day.
The screeching sound of a bolt being withdrawn alerted him once again to the possibility of further bad fortune. He stepped back from the door as it swung open and adopted a wrestler's stance, his body balanced and ready. He would fight for his life if need be.
The Sixth Seal
Also in the year 1250, there were earthquakes in the Chilterns on St Lucy's Day. This has never been reported before by those who live in Ciltria. Accompanying the movement was a terrifying noise akin to thunder under the ground. Jackdaws, pigeons and sparrows took to wing and flew to and fro in confusion, as though they were hunted by a sparrowhawk. The new moon appeared both swollen and reddish in the sky. Then was the Sixth Seal broken. And it is written that there was a violent earthquake, and the moon turned red as blood. All men, rich or poor, monarch or slave, hid themselves in caves to conceal them from the Lord. It is at this time that the seal of our God will be set upon the forehead of the tribes of the new Israel to denote those who will be saved. I await the breaking of the Seventh Seal.
From the Chronica Oseneiensis
Chapter Eleven
I apologize, Master Falconer, for the inconvenience, but it was for your own safety, I assure you.’
In the doorway stood Humphrey Segrim, a self-satisfied smile on his flushed face. He clearly wished to disarm Falconer by his statement, but a burly, red-coated soldier stood close at his shoulder nevertheless. Segrim stepped fastidiously into the cell, wishing to avoid sullying his soft leather boots on the dusty, dropping-covered floor. He linked his arm with Falconer's, feeling the tension in the Master's frame.
‘I have something to show you.’
Falconer allowed himself to be led out of the cell and up the stone staircase which, descending, he had not expected to see again. This time he was drawn in the opposite direction by Segrim, into a lavishly appointed passageway lined with tapestries. Torches lit the way with splashes of light. Passing a glazed window, Falconer saw that evening had fallen and all he could see was the pale reflection of his own face. He suddenly realized that Segrim had been speaking to him.
‘I'm sorry, what did you say?’
‘I was saying that what you are about to witness should convince you that it is nonsensical to pursue any feud against me or my colleagues.’
‘Feud?’
‘In the matter of the unfortunate
death of Sinibaldo. The Papal Legate's brother.’
Falconer caught Segrim's arm firmly and stopped him in his tracks. There was a flash of alarm in Segrim's eyes, and he looked over Falconer's shoulder at the man-at-arms who was still in attendance. The man took a step towards Falconer, his hand on a dagger at his waist. Falconer visibly relaxed, patted Segrim's arm and smiled at the soldier. He spoke in lowered tones.
‘Don't you think it would be better to discuss all this in private, without other ears hearing what we say? Anyway you don't need your nursemaid so close. It would be foolish of me to seek to harm you, with so many soldiers around.’
Segrim thought a moment, then nodded, and motioned for the soldier to leave them.
When the man had retreated out of sight, Falconer turned back to Segrim. For the first time that evening he discerned a thin film of sweat on the man's florid face, despite the coldness of the corridor they stood in. He was also picking at the sleeve of his richly decorated robe, pulling golden threads loose from the embroidery. It was more than mere nervousness at Falconer's physical presence. There was something important afoot that he was seeking to do, and he was more than a little worried about failing. Falconer continued the interrupted conversation, his curiosity aroused.
‘What makes you think I am conducting a feud against you?’
Segrim regained a little of his composure.
‘Because you are spreading ridiculous rumours that I was involved in the death of Sinibaldo. That somehow I had arranged to kill Bishop Otho on behalf of the King, and bungled it.’
Segrim cackled at this statement, as though the very idea was ridiculous. To Falconer's ears, the laughter sounded hollow. He thought he might try to provoke the man into further revelations.
‘I am not spreading any rumour. I am merely collecting the facts and trying to deduce a greater truth from them. Why should I not consider the possibility that you did try to arrange the death of the Bishop?’
Segrim's jowls shook as he tried to control himself, and his normally soft features tightened, his lips white and drawn. He spoke not a word, but took Falconer's arm again and led him on down the passageway. Once more in control of himself, he chose his words carefully.
‘I see I cannot convince you. That like Doubting Thomas you must see for yourself. Then so be it, you will see.’
He almost dragged the mystified Falconer to the foot of a spiral staircase, where he stopped and thrust his face at the Master.
‘I must insist, however, that you are perfectly silent from now on,’ he hissed.
Leading the way, Segrim crept up the staircase and Falconer followed, trying not to cause the wooden steps to creak under his weight. At the top Segrim beckoned Falconer forward with an urgent wave of his arm. The Regent Master saw they were in what must be a minstrels‘ gallery. The narrow balcony had solid timber panelling to waist height, and above that a row of artfully carved posts that afforded a restricted view down into the hall below. From the main hall, the musicians would be invisible to the assembled throng of nobles, their music apparently drifting down from heaven. On this occasion, both Segrim and Falconer were hidden from whoever was below, and could spy on them without being seen.
Falconer could hear a murmur of voices, and it was clear the hall was well lit by the glow that filtered through the lattice-work. The gallery was hot and stuffy from the many torches that illuminated the scene below. Segrim motioned for the Regent Master to move forward, but as Falconer opened his mouth to form a question he quickly put his finger to his lips. Falconer obeyed and moved to the screen, hoping a sneeze from his blocked-up nose would not betray his presence.
He peered between the carving and cursed his poor eyesight. But screwing up his eyes, he could just make out the scene down in the hall. Bright tapestries hung from the walls, the extravagant creatures on them apparently alive as the light flickered on their surfaces. Unicorn jousted with lion in a mythical battle of the beasts, whilst in the next panel allegorical figures lived out ancient tales. Beneath this other-worldly opulence, the small group of men seemed almost insignificant. They had clearly finished a lavish meal, the remnants of which lay thrust aside on trestle tables. Trenchers were crumbled and broken, and stains of wine and gravy mingled across the tables‘ surfaces. The men now sat round the hearth in the centre of the vast hall, the flames of the fire lighting up their faces.
Falconer squinted at the pinkish blobs that should hold some significance, if Segrim's clandestine exercise were to be taken seriously. He studied them as hard as his weakened eyesight would allow. Most of the group were facing towards him, looking at the man whose back was firmly set to Falconer's view. This man was grey haired and of moderate stature, his body compact, but even seated he had a naturally noble bearing. The others seemed to hang on his every word, but his voice was low and Falconer could not make out what he was saying. He looked back at Segrim in frustration. What was this supposed to tell him?
Peter Talam waited until after vespers, when all of his fellow monks had retired to the dorter or to their separate cells. Dusk was settling over the water-meadows surrounding Oseney Abbey, and it was time for him to move. In the uncertain light, it became difficult to tell a man from the scrubby trees that littered the meadows, if the man stood quite still. Anyway, there was little likelihood of there being anyone to observe him at this hour. The countryside outside the walls of Oxford fell silent after the sun had gone down.
The monk felt in his purse for the little vial that contained the potion he had so carefully prepared that day in his solitary cell. The comforting shape was still there, and he patted it gently and smiled. If the properties of the brew were to be believed, this would sort matters out once and for all. He slipped out of the small door cut in the face of the massive doors that secured the abbey for the night. His route through the darkened landscape was familiar to him, which was just as well as the light was fast disappearing. Hanging low over the trees ahead of him, the rising moon looked red and ominous, and he shivered, pulling his robes around him for protection. He uttered a brief prayer and scurried down the dusty track, as a distant rumble of thunder warned of a storm.
High in the Scriptorium, where he had gone to retrieve a valuable text he had not intended to leave out overnight, Brother John Darby shielded the guttering candle from reflecting on the window, and looked out. He had thought he had seen something moving in the courtyard, but assumed his own reflection in the glass had deceived him. Now, on a more careful look, he saw a monk stepping through the wicket door and closing it behind him. He was sure from the way the monk moved, stiffly and upright, that it had been Peter Talam. He wondered where the bursar was going when the rules demanded that he be a-bed, and pondered on telling the Abbot. Whatever he was about, it must be of some secrecy.
Falconer was growing exasperated with the lack of action, as he sat looking down on the lengthy conversation of this group of people whom he could not even identify. He squirmed in his hard and uncomfortable seat, but Segrim merely smiled secretively and raised his palm to indicate Falconer should be patient. At that moment the door at the end of the hall was flung open and all the heads turned away from the grey-haired man in expectation. A thin, clerkish figure appeared in the archway, clinging to the heavy door. It looked as though the door had swung open of its own volition with this scrawny figure hanging on to it, rather than having been moved in its frame by the insignificant clerk. Clearly this was not the man everyone in the chamber was anticipating, for the group below Falconer still waited eagerly for the new arrival.
A thick and heavily accented voice boomed out from beyond the doorway.
‘Your Majesty, thank you for agreeing to see me again.’
The archway was filled with the gaudily clad and corpulent shape of Bishop Otho, the Papal Legate to England. Falconer recognized him instantly despite the distance and his poor eyesight. There could be no other man in England who was so obviously - well - Roman. Only after he had identified the new player in the tabl
eau below did the import of the Bishop's words register on Falconer's brain. Otho had referred to lrsquoYour Majesty’. The grey-haired man of upright bearing was King Henry III of England.
Bishop Otho waddled towards the King, his arms held forward in an open gesture of Mediterranean warmth. Light flashed off the many rings on his stubby fingers. Henry stood his ground and, despite his moderate physical stature, caused the Bishop to turn his intended hug into a grasping of the King's outstretched hand. The Bishop also converted his forward lunge into a hasty and wobbly genuflection, and the men's relative positions of power were established.
However, with this tacitly agreed, Henry put his arm round the bulky shoulders of the Bishop, lifting him up and treating him as a friend. He guided the cleric towards a large and comfortable chair set next to his own. In doing so, he turned his face towards Falconer for the first time. By squinting, the Regent Master could make out a thin, pale face set in a worried frown, creases lining his high forehead. The grey thatch of hair plunging in waves either side of the drawn cheeks was matched by a grey beard that was carefully combed to a point. The face certainly resembled a likeness of the King, executed by Brother Darby, that Falconer had been shown in the Oseney Abbey chronicles. He glanced at the shadowy figure of Humphrey Segrim by his side. The man looked smug. He clearly relished the opportunity to show others the high circles with which he consorted.
For Falconer, returning his gaze to the scene below was like looking at one of the mythical tableaux on the wall tapestries. There sat the King of England in discourse with the Papal Legate, surrounded by what must be some of the most influential nobles in England. The conversation was at first too low for Falconer to hear, as the two powerful men leaned close to each other. Then the King asked a question of one of the men surrounding him, there was laughter and the talking continued at a level audible to Falconer.
‘My Lord Bishop, I can assure you that all goes well now.’
