Falconer's Crusade

by Ian Morson

  Of course Thomas did not believe the story, even if the Jews had crucified our Lord. Still, it would be interesting to satisfy his curiosity about this cursed race who lived by lending money. Thomas slipped the book by Donatus inside his jerkin and quietly opened the main door to the hall. There was no one around and although the sky looked dark, he decided it was safe enough and turned right down towards the Jewish quarter.

  Although the cellar was icy cold and the rain outside slanted through the narrow arch close to the ceiling; the body was putrefying. He would have to bury it tonight before his neighbours started complaining of the stench. It did not seem to affect him, he accepted the smell as a simple necessity. Almost a pleasure, as its connotation was the exercise of his skill with a knife. He scooped together the detritus of his carving, casting entrails, bones and muscle into a bloody jumble in the sack. His work was unfinished and this sample had not revealed all that he would wish. What a pity the servant girl was steadfastly guarded by that ugly toad of a man. For what Bonham truly needed was a fresh human body.

  Chapter Four

  The freezing rain began to tumble out of the darkening sky and urged Falconer into some form of action. He could not stand outside St Frideswide’s any longer trying to make the few scraps of information available to him expand into a logical whole. Beke’s Inn was to hand and so now perhaps was the time to talk to Master Fyssh. He turned to his right and hurried down the lane, which was already turning to mud in the torrent of water falling from the sky. Squeezing into the shallow doorway of Beke’s Inn, he plastered his soaked hair flat on his head and knocked. After a pause he heard a shuffling behind the door but it did not open. He knocked again, more impatiently as water ran down the back of his neck.

  ‘Who is it?’ the voice piped tremulously, barely audible through the thick oak door.

  ‘Fyssh. Open up, it’s Falconer of Aristotle’s.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘At the moment I would like to be somewhere warm and dry. Open up for heaven’s sake.’

  The voice behind the door made a grumbling noise, then Falconer heard the grating of rarely used bolts. One piggy eye set deep in a fat face applied itself to the crack as the door barely opened. Falconer impatiently set his fist against the oak and pushed the startled Fyssh aside as though he were no weight at all. He squealed like a pig and cowered in the corner holding on to the edge of the door as if it were a shield.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I am alone.’

  He prised Fyssh’s fingers off the door and closed it behind him, shutting out the hiss of the rain. Fyssh’s jowls quivered, a tear trickling down his fat cheek. As Falconer looked at the other man, he cursed his own abruptness. He had obviously been so scared today already that he was near to collapse. It would not help the cause of uncovering a few facts if Falconer had a fit of hysterics to contend with. He gently extended his arm, and with it around Fyssh’s shoulder guided the shaken man to a bench near the hearth. He placed himself squarely before the fire and his wet clothes steamed.

  ‘That’s a relief. It’s like the time of Noah’s flood out there.’

  He let the other man compose himself, taking the opportunity to look around the hall. It appeared almost opulent in comparison with his own bare accommodation – there was even a tapestry hung on one wall. It was said Fyssh taught few students and yet he obviously did not lack money. He even had a servant girl – or did until last night. It was Fyssh himself who broke the silence.

  ‘I suppose you too wish to question me about that damned girl.’

  ‘Too?’

  ‘Yes. That surly hunchback dragged me to see the body, practically accusing me of murder with his looks. And then …’

  Fyssh hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor just as Falconer thought he had recovered his usual bluster. Something had scared him; was it fear of discovery? Falconer sat in silence, but the man had clearly decided to say no more. He sat looking at the fire, nervously stroking the fur on the cuff of his loose-fitting gown. It was obvious to Falconer he would have to press him despite his delicate mental condition. He began indirectly.

  ‘What was Margaret doing abroad so late last night?’

  ‘What?’ Fyssh’s eyes suddenly focused on his questioner. ‘That I do not know.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  Fyssh explained that she had served his dinner at nones and provided for the students in the hall. After she cleared his bowls, he neither knew nor cared what she was about. She had a bed in the kitchen. Falconer suspected Fyssh knew nothing because he had been drunk. But on the other hand could he in that state have caused the girl’s death?

  ‘And her possessions?’

  ‘What do I care of her possessions? If indeed she had any.’ Fyssh was becoming increasingly peevish. ‘She was a servant.’

  It was clear he thought this sufficient to know about her. Falconer came to the crucial question.

  ‘And you? Where were you when she died?’

  Strangely this did not seem to anger Fyssh. Indeed, his response was quite considered as though he were innocent of her murder. Or perhaps had prepared himself well.

  ‘I fell asleep soon after dinner. I do not recall anything else until I was woken by that constable this morning. Indeed I do not know when she was killed precisely.’

  Falconer sighed and asked if he could see where she slept. Fyssh’s eyes flickered towards the kitchen door and his face paled. Unsure what this reaction betokened, Falconer made to move towards the kitchen. The fat man’s reaction was swift and unexpected.

  ‘No you may not.’

  He lurched from his seat, his jowls quivering and his face turning pale. Spittle flew from his lips as he cursed Falconer and his rage gave him enough courage to grasp his arm and urge him towards the door. Surprised and amused at this strange show of bravado, Falconer allowed himself to be deposited out in the lane. Clearly he was to get no further with Fyssh; at least for the present. But what had he said to cause the reaction?

  The other side of the door, Fyssh felt safe as he pushed the bolts home. He rested his flabby cheek against the smooth oak and breathed out in relief. Moulcom’s coarse voice close to his ear caused him to stiffen again with shock. He had not heard the young man creep up behind him.

  ‘You did well to get rid of him. Now let us talk about the matter of the girl’s book.’

  ‘I know of no book. She was a servant; what would she be doing with a book?’

  Fyssh winced as Moulcom raised a rough red fist over his head and grasped the fur around his collar with the other. His breath reeked of ale as he thrust his face at Fyssh, twisting the cloth in his grasp so that it cut into the Master’s neck.

  ‘She had no book or papers?’

  ‘No, I swear,’ he croaked. Moulcom twisted until the cloth cut deep into the blotchy red flesh and Fyssh’s face turned purple, his eyes bulging with real fear.

  ‘If I find you are lying …’ His threat hung in the air between them. Then he threw the choking Fyssh to the floor and left, leaving the Master to wonder about the importance of the dead girl’s book.

  Falconer, standing in a doorway next to Beke’s Inn, watched the ugly form of the student disappear down the lane towards Fish Street. Despite the handicap of his eyes, and the student’s form being huddled against the rain, he recognized him as Jack Moulcom from the Northern Nation who had already earned a bad reputation amongst other students. Why had Fyssh gone to such pains to conceal the fact that he was present just now? A flash of lightning and a momentous clap of thunder urged Falconer to get indoors before he was as drowned as all those animals who failed to enter the Ark.

  Thomas’s heart nearly stopped at the clap of thunder. He wished he had not left the security of Aristotle’s, for he now stood in an alley in the Jewry – he was convinced by the heap of rubbish at his feet. He could not be sure, but the broken pot with two feet pointing to the sky like the Devil’s horns seemed
to mock his sense of direction. All the alleys and blind doors seemed the same. And every shuttered window turned its back on him as the rain beat down. Fear of becoming another murdered Hugh of Lincoln prevented him from beating on a door at random and seeking either shelter or directions. The stories his father had told now seemed not so far-fetched.

  Indeed he thought he heard the baying of the Devil’s hound already. He could discern sharp barking notes ringing down the alleys, and imagined the sharp-toothed creatures making them. Then he realized it was the sound of human voices and they were coming his way. The heart that had nearly stopped now beat with the speed of some demented blacksmith. For the second time in two days he was being hunted. Was life in towns always like this? He began to yearn for the boredom of his father’s farm. He tried to work out where the sound of the mob was coming from so that he might retreat in the opposite direction. At least a choice of direction would now be forced upon him. Splashing through the clinging mud, he ran to one end of the narrow alley which split into two. Trying to still the thudding of his heart, he listened and groaned. The angry voices echoed up both alleys. His only option was to retreat the way he had come and that had resulted in his losing his way.

  He leaned both his hands on the rough wood of a door to gain his breath, and stumbled forward as it gave in to his weight. He regained his footing and looked up, fearing the worst. But he stood alone in a gloomy hall – he had been let in by the merest chance of a bolt that had been carelessly thrown.

  He turned to go back out through the door, which still hung ajar, but the sound of harsh voices, already in the alley baying to each other, changed his mind. He slammed the door and threw the bolt firmly in place this time. Turning, he leaned his back against the door feeling the safety of its solidness, only to open his eyes to a more terrifying sight.

  Falconer had hardly reached the doorway of Aristotle’s when he heard the clamour of a church bell. The sound was distant and tinny – it was the bell of St Martin’s, clearly a rallying call for the townspeople. He stood in the arch of the door and listened. Shortly the sound of ox-horns blared out and Falconer knew the hue and cry was up and could not be stopped. Foolish students would probably respond and call others to battle with them. Wise foxes like Falconer went to earth until the madness was over. The townspeople, as Bullock had warned, were incensed by the death of one of their own and were too ready to blame their old enemy, the university. There would be no recourse to common sense and reasoning, merely a foolishness which both sides would have to repent later. Falconer slammed the door of Aristotle’s behind him and sighed.

  ‘Falconer, is that you?’

  He screwed his eyes up to focus better on the figure standing at the end of the dark passage leading to the hall. Even though it was still afternoon – scarcely nones – the dullness of the day did little more than make the man a grey shape to Falconer. It was still too early for the extravagance of lighting candles, and William silently cursed his weak sight. He played for time, not wishing anyone to know of his failing, and walked towards the man.

  ‘Who else would it be, entering Aristotle’s as if he owned its walls? Though you seem to have made yourself at home here, Bonham,’ he growled, at last recognizing the man before him.

  Richard Bonham was a nondescript regent master of rhetoric, very fond of quoting St Augustine on the evils of trade. Bonham was a small man, in thinking and in stature, with a bald head that resembled a Franciscan tonsure. Indeed his clothes were simple and often a dull grey, so that he could have been taken for a friar.

  He disregarded Falconer’s pointed comment, and began to ask him about his friendship with Peter Bullock. His purpose soon became obvious. Unlike de Stepying, he was very interested in the dead girl.

  ‘I was wondering if, through your intercession, I might be allowed to dispose of the body suitably.’

  Responding to the query in Falconer’s eyes, he went on quickly.

  ‘After all, she has no family and I would like to ensure she has a Christian burial.’ He took the other man’s arm as if to hasten his decision. But there was simply no contest between his puny frame and the solid bulk of Falconer. The latter simply stood his ground, stopping Bonham in his tracks.

  ‘I think not. At least not at the moment – the hunt is up out there and you may be foolhardy enough to brave it, but not I.’

  The little man seemed about to retort, but he held his counsel and stepped to the narrow slit of a window that overlooked the lane. He cocked his thin face to one side and listened. He reminded Falconer of a cautious songthrush spying out the land with one eye while keeping both ears open for warning noises. The hoarse cry of townspeople echoed in the distance, and Bonham’s lips pursed even tighter as though more annoyed that the other man was right.

  ‘In that case, as I appear to be forced to stay here, may I take the opportunity to correct your errors recently enunciated to the poor clerks who depend on your teaching for their progress through the quadrivium?’

  Falconer breathed a heavy sigh – Bonham was a pedantic thinker with whom discussion could be long and tedious.

  ‘Which errors might they be?’

  ‘I understand that you continue to insist that the world is shaped like a cape.’ A condescending smile split the small man’s face, the corners of his mouth turned down registering disapproval. ‘And though I do not subscribe to the theory of Cosmas in his work Topographia Christiana that the world is shaped as is the tabernacle of God, surely Isidore’s view sums up the accurate Christian position.’

  His eyes fixed Falconer, daring him to contradict. But the other man knew better and Bonham continued.

  ‘A T within an O succinctly describes the division of the world amongst the sons of Noah. Shem was granted Asia, a full half of the world in accordance with the concept of primogeniture. Europe was the portion of Japheth—’

  The diatribe was interrupted by the crashing open of the heavy oak door. An unusually dishevelled Hugh Pett flew through only to be stopped in his tracks by the sight of a disapproving Richard Bonham.

  ‘Master!’

  Pett’s eyes held a wild appeal, but Bonham raised his hand and prevented further words from the young student. The regent master patiently continued. ‘Europe was the portion of Japheth, and Africa that of Ham.’

  ‘The cape you so ridicule is merely the attempt of the ancient Ptolemy to depict on a flat surface the curvature of the world.’

  Pett could contain himself no longer. ‘Master, I must speak to you.’

  This time it was Falconer’s turn to raise his hand. Bonham’s smugness had angered him and he was determined to beat him with logical argument.

  ‘Quiet, Hugh.’ He turned his gaze to the regent master, who sat primly on the bench safe in his own certitude.

  ‘Do you deny the world is curved? I myself have sat atop a mast at sea and spied land before someone on the deck of the ship. Even your elementary knowledge of geometry will permit you to see the significance of that – a demonstrable fact.’

  ‘Master, Thomas is missing,’ Hugh blurted out before he could be stopped again. ‘I think he went out and he’s not returned.’

  Falconer reacted immediately, leaping from his chair and knocking an ale jug into the lap of the startled Bonham. He grasped the silk collar of Pett’s gown and thrust him down next to the older man.

  ‘Tell me, where could he have gone?’

  Hugh hesitated.

  ‘Come, he must have said something about wanting to see things for himself. If not, you must remember what it was like coming here for the first time. What were you most curious about? Think!’

  Hugh frowned in concentration as he tried to recall the flood of questions Thomas had plied him with that morning. Something struck him.

  ‘He made some silly comment about ritual murder. Of course I did not believe him—’

  ‘Jewry.’ Falconer danced towards the door, calling over his shoulder.

  ‘Both
of you stay here. No. Hugh – first bolt the street door behind me, then wait for my return. Don’t leave under any circumstances.’

  He was through the door before Hugh Pett was on his feet. Yet hardly had he begun to hurry after his Master to throw the bolt than Falconer came back and wagged a finger at him.

  ‘And if anything has happened to that boy …’

  The threat was left unfinished, but Pett blanched knowing that the boy had been his charge. He began to speak, but Falconer was already gone.

  Chapter Five

  The terrifying form occupied the hallway before Thomas, black and massive. His hair was a wild tangle in which Thomas was sure he could discern horns. Steam issued from between his hands and the boy was certain he could smell the charnel odour of hell. He cringed in the doorway and made the sign of the cross. Undeterred the figure came towards him, the steam swirling around his dark robes. Rooted to the spot, Thomas could only look up in horror, thinking of all the children who had been human sacrifices on the altar of the Jews. The eyes of the monster glowed redly in the dark corridor, transfixing him. He thought he heard the cry of someone behind his tormentor, calling in some outlandish language. It could only be the Jew’s familiar – a cat or a goat, his father had once assured him. Thomas fell to his knees and prepared himself for death.

  Falconer heard Hugh slam the bolts behind him and slipped down the alley, dodging from door to door. At least the rain had stopped for the moment, though the afternoon was still miserable. The cries of people and the clash of arms came mainly from the direction of the High Street. Falconer kept to the lanes near the city walls. The boy had spoken about ritual murder, the current nonsense laid at the doorstep of the Jews. Perhaps he was now exhibiting a farmboy’s curiosity to see this persecuted race, and had made for Jewry. Anyway, this was Falconer’s only clue to his possible whereabouts. He prayed that he was right and the boy had the sense to keep away from the main confrontation. Crossing Shidyerd Street, Falconer’s feet squelched through the mud on the spot where the girl had been killed. He thought again of the truths he had collected about the death, so terribly few to date, and was frustrated that no deductive truth resulted from them. He collided with a man coming round the comer as though chased by the Devil. His aleladen breath assaulted Falconer as the man clung to his clothes, his eyes staring wildly into the Master’s.