Falconer's Crusade

by Ian Morson

  Falconer squared his shoulders to beat off an attack but the man could only muster a curse before he loosened his grasp and staggered down the lane. He cast a glance over his shoulder and was gone. Falconer breathed a sigh of relief and turned up the narrow alley that led deep into Jewry. The grim buildings crowded in on him, dripping rainwater from their eaves into the churned mud of the lanes. At least they afforded some safety from the riot which carried over to Falconer as muffled cries ebbing to and fro away to his right. The time for harassing the Jews was not now – the town had other fish to fry. The only risk was turning down Vine Hall Lane, when he would be momentarily visible from the High Street. His poor eyesight meant he would not know if anyone was looking down the lane as he emerged and crossed to the other side. He decided he would have to risk it. Having come this far, he was determined to ensure the safety of Thomas if he could.

  Thomas de Cantilupe was concerned for his own safety. As chancellor he had much to lose besides his dignity. But even his life would be worth nothing, if he could not control the university and its constant squabbles with the town. The King might be on the verge of plunging the country into allout civil war, but he could still be petitioned to penalize the university for any perceived wrong. And he was unhappy with the student body, who seemed to be siding with Earl Simon. If de Cantilupe could not walk the tightrope of diplomacy, his ambitions, which stretched far beyond Oxford, would be thwarted.

  He had only just concluded a meeting with the new proctor elected by the Masters of the North, when the clanging of St Martin’s church bell caused the hairs on his neck to prickle. He had sent away the proctor to exercise some control over his students, and hurried into the street still clad in his formal academical cope. Its heavy purple folds swirled about him as he bustled down the High Street, hoping to divert any foolhardy members of his university from being dragged into a fight. Besides he now needed urgently to see Jack Moulcom.

  He cursed upon seeing two foolish students swaggering down the road in front of him, one brandishing a sword. The rain beat down on them, soaking their clothes, but they seemed oblivious to it. The one with the sword placed his feet wide apart in the clinging mud and swung his weapon in a great arc, his back to the chancellor. His companion looked on admiringly as the braggart roared with all his might for an adversary. They giggled together as there came no response save the growl of thunder in the air. De Cantilupe strode up behind them unobserved and, as the swordsman wound himself up for another display, he spoke.

  ‘Fools, do you want to die so young?’

  His quiet but firm voice stopped both young men in their tracks. As the one with the sword swivelled round to see who was commanding him, his sword plunged at de Cantilupe’s feet. Fortunately the heavy folds of his cope diverted the blade, but a long tear appeared in the sumptuous gown. De Cantilupe looked down, and the student blanched realizing whose robe he had just ruined. His nerveless fingers loosened on the sword, and de Cantilupe took it from his grasp. He sighed, surveying the damage to the cope, already soaking up the noxious stew of fluids coursing down the centre of the road.

  ‘I believe this weapon will be safer with me. And you will be safer within the walls of your hall. Go there. Immediately.’

  The students looked crestfallen and, stumbling over an apology, backed away from the chancellor. He watched them go towards a side lane leading to Jewry, then spotted a mob at the far end of the High Street coming his way. With a sword in his hand, his life would be as at risk as the students’ would have been, and he did not think his cope would save him from harm again. He turned back to the safety of his hall, hoping the students would not be seen by the town mob. His business with Moulcom would just have to wait.

  Falconer paused at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the timber of a corner building. Cursing his poor vision, he squinted to his right. As he did so, two figures were outlined at the junction of the lane with the High Street. They appeared to be arguing momentarily, one clutching the other’s sleeve. A distant cry seemed to resolve their disagreement, and they turned towards Falconer. However, they had hardly gone a few yards, when a half a dozen shapes darkened the entrance to the lane. Two students, incautiously or with foolish bravado, had clearly ventured out of doors. Now they had been spotted by the mob and were no match for them. Falconer prayed that Thomas was not one of them.

  Turning to look over his shoulder, one of the pursued slipped in the mud, bringing his fellow down with him. In a moment the pursuing gang were on them and rained blows with their clubs on their defenceless victims. Falconer heard the sickening crunch of broken bones and was roused from the daze caused by the suddenness of the incident. Without thinking, he sprang from his hiding place and bore down on the thugs screaming at the top of his voice.

  It may be that his sudden and seemingly mad appearance saved him from the fate of the two boys. The ranks of the gang wavered and broke, and they fled away in the direction they had come from. It may be that their own insane urge to kill had been broken by the very act of killing. They were, after all, just ordinary townspeople in other circumstances. The two students lay on their backs, their blood mingled in one pool. Their faces were cruelly lacerated but Falconer could tell that neither was Thomas. It was equally clear that both were dead.

  With nothing to be done for them, Falconer’s main concern was still Thomas and his only hope was to contact Rabbi Jehozadok at the Scola Judaeorum. If Thomas was alive and hiding somewhere in Jewry, the Rabbi would know, or be able to find out where he was. A Jew’s life in England hung in a precarious balance and depended on alertness to those surrounding them.

  Jews were the King’s property, and could only exist in England to do him service. That service was to be milked for money by the spendthrift Henry, who only a few years ago had mortgaged them like some unwanted derelict house to his brother, Richard of Cornwall. They were grudgingly respected by the merchants who had dealings with them, and hated by de Montfort and the barons. The latter had sworn to destroy the archa kept by the Jews – a registry of bonds in each major trading centre. This de Montfort especially desired as he himself had borrowed the princely sum of one hundred and ten pounds from them.

  Many people feared and hated the Jews, but Falconer’s own prejudice had been overcome as a youth far from England, and was based on an admiration of the scholarship of the people. Indeed it had been the old Rabbi Jehozadok himself who had allowed Falconer to borrow rare copies of the two great books of the Arab, Avicenna – the Qanun and the Shifa. The last Falconer greatly prized for its interpretation of Aristotle’s ideas.

  Another flurry of rain washed the blood off the clerks’ brutalized faces and, with a sigh, Falconer turned away to seek out his old friend the rabbi. He was soon at the doors of the Scola and had no need to knock before the heavy oak was swung open briefly to let him in. He stood brushing the rain from his eyes and the reassuring voice of the old rabbi came from behind him.

  ‘You are taking a very great chance, my friend. It must be important, what you seek.’

  Jehozadok’s voice was deep and firm, belying his years. His gnarled hands, bent with age, fumbled on the bolts of the door and Falconer helped him secure the synagogue. A woven shawl was wrapped around the Jew’s shoulders and thick white locks tumbled from his head, mingling with his beard, their meeting point almost indistinguishable. His dark features were heavily lined and, although his eyes bore the faded cast of age, they clearly betokened the sharpness of the man’s mind. He looked hard into Falconer’s own troubled eyes.

  ‘Come with me. You are in need of something to soothe that fearsome look.’

  He took Falconer by the arm and led him down a dark corridor to its end and lifted a heavy curtain. The room beyond glowed in candlelight, revealing a wall lined with books. Even Falconer, a lover of strange texts and used to the accumulated wealth of books in the hands of the university, was always excited by this library. A large tome lay open on the oaken table beneath the c
andelabra.

  ‘I am afraid my eyes cannot cope with most of these texts now. I read them mostly from memory rather than the page.’

  Falconer sat at the table, while the rabbi fussed with a pitcher of wine. The book was in a language unknown to him and he was curious to enquire what it was. But the possible fate of Thomas was more urgent and he dragged his eyes from the page to explain his errand. Between draughts of the sweet red wine that had been proffered him, he asked if Jehozadok could enquire of his people if a student new to the town had been seen or taken in. The old man called out in his own language, and a young man with a wispy beard lifted the curtain. He must have been standing just behind it so sudden was his appearance. Jehozadok spoke to him, and he disappeared as silently as he had come.

  ‘Joshua will find your student, if he is to be found.’ The old man’s voice was reassuring. ‘Now tell me what your opinion is of the text by Avicenna that I gave you.’

  Jack Moulcom had delayed returning to his employer, knowing he would not be happy at his not finding the book. Still, what could he expect if he did not explain what the book was, merely that it would be obvious when he saw it? He had not seen it and that was that. The rainstorm and the early clashes of townspeople and students, warning of the battle that had now arrived, drove him indoors to face the older man. His greatest fears had been realized. The man’s face was dark with rage; even in the gloom of the illlit room that much was clear to Moulcom.

  ‘Fool, I cannot trust you to do anything. You even alerted Fyssh to what you were looking for. That could be dangerous.’

  Moulcom scratched his greasy locks and mumbled in his rough Northern tones, ‘There was nothing to find.’

  ‘I was stupid to think you could even identify a book if you saw one. When was the last time you attended a lesson?’

  Moulcom’s incoherent excuses were brushed aside by a curt wave of the older man’s hand. He paced the dark and claustrophobic room, and Moulcom dared not move.

  ‘If only the girl had not died.’

  The man was clearly angry at the poor girl’s presumptuousness.

  Moulcom sat in the corner racking his brain for a ploy to please this harsh taskmaster. The man was muttering to himself in a language unknown to the puzzled student. Remembering the interruption to his search, Moulcom mentioned Fyssh’s unexpected visitor.

  ‘Master Falconer came while I was searching.’

  The pacing stopped abruptly.

  ‘He saw you?’

  Moulcom explained that he had hidden in the back room and threatened Fyssh with death if he didn’t get rid of the visitor. He assured the other man that Falconer had left none the wiser. Indeed he might already suspect Fyssh of the murder.

  ‘And perhaps it was Fyssh. She was his servant – maybe she did not wash the dishes to his satisfaction.’

  Moulcom forced a weak laugh at his master’s witticism. A cruel smile was returned by the man.

  ‘I merely want the return of something which is precious to me. And being dead, the girl will find it difficult to do so herself.’

  The man’s response led Moulcom to think some good humour had been restored. And he could no longer restrain his curiosity.

  ‘Would this book link the girl to you?’

  When no reply came, his coarse mind made the only connection he was capable of, and with a giggle he spoke the words, ‘They all said she went with men. Did you have her?’

  Even his employer’s piercing eyes turned on him could not stay his tumbling tongue.

  ‘Was she good?’

  ‘That’s enough, blasphemer.’

  Moulcom could not believe the power of the man’s hands on his throat. He would have wagered on his own physical strength against this book man. He clasped the other’s wrists but could not move them.

  ‘God save me,’ he croaked, with what air he had left.

  ‘God will not save you.’

  The man’s eyes bore triumphantly into Moulcom’s.

  ‘The Devil created you and all you see around you. How could the good God be responsible for anything but pure spirit. That’s why there will be no Resurrection such as you fools are taught. So look your last on the physical world.’

  Moulcom was filled with horror. He cared not a jot for heresy, even if he had been able to identify it as such. The horror was in the power of the words and that of the hands around his throat. His fists beat a weakening tattoo on the other’s back to no avail.

  ‘But, fear not. Your soul will survive to be cast over the precipice by demons.’

  The man’s face pressed up against his, but Moulcom could read nothing more in his eyes. He just felt weary and fearful for what was to come. What had he said to deserve this? He still did not understand as those cold eyes faded into a grey mist of oblivion. He would have sworn the last sound he heard was the jingle of horse armour.

  * * *

  Try as he could, Falconer was not able to concentrate on Jehozadok’s exposition of the difference between the Two Wisdoms. He could only think of his own lack of wisdom in leaving Thomas to his own devices. Was he now dead, when only so recently arrived in Oxford? The rabbi’s gentle chiding brought his thoughts back to the moment.

  ‘I can see my teaching on Sophia and Phronesis have not served to distract you from the boy and his fate.’

  ‘Forgive me, Rabbi. I—’

  Falconer’s need to put his feelings into words was obviated by the return of the young Jew. He glided silently over to Jehozadok, and leaned over him with his back to Falconer, rainwater dripping from his sodden clothes. He whispered something in the older man’s ear that Falconer could not catch and then turned his impassive gaze on the gentile. His cold eyes betrayed a dislike for Falconer but nothing of the import of his message. The Oxford Master’s gaze turned anxiously on the elderly Jew, anticipating the worst. The rabbi’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘Good news, my friend. The boy is safe. He is in the home of Samson the herbalist. Joshua here will conduct you safely to him.’

  Though he was hungry and the food before him was tempting, Thomas could not drag his eyes from the beautiful face of the Jewish girl. Her own eyes were brown and large, her red lips contrasted with her ivory skin. He stared at them as they moved, not taking in the words she was saying. She laughed and teased him.

  ‘You obviously think it not important to listen to the words of a mere girl, brave scholar.’

  Thomas flushed red and stammered an apology. He did not want to offend Hannah. After all, this was the first girl of any beauty that he had encountered. In his village his only knowledge was of red-faced wenches who claimed a greater sexual experience than he. Indeed they ignored him as a mere youth. Now he had met a girl who was prepared to talk to him as a man, and he did not know what to say. He cursed his inexperience.

  Coming round from his faint earlier, his first sight had been of her face and he could have imagined himself in Heaven. Fortunately he had had no opportunity to embarrass himself further by saying anything. The demon who had caused his faint had appeared over the shoulder of the girl. But in the full light of several candles it was clear he was only an old man, with a concerned expression on his face. Admittedly he was unlike anyone Thomas had seen before, but then he had never seen a Jew. His hair was long and wild and a lock hung either side of his face. These were the horns that Thomas had seen. His flowing robes were dark with two tablet-shaped strips of yellow cloth sewn into them. He raised two reddish ovals of glass to his eyes and peered at Thomas.

  ‘I am sorry for frightening you, young man. But your own appearance through the door rather startled us. Did it not, Hannah?’

  He looked down at the young girl. She continued to look at Thomas, but nodded her agreement. Seeing Thomas’s puzzlement at her father’s actions with the glass, she smiled and explained.

  ‘Father is short of sight. The glass is shaped to bend the light into his eyes.’

  Thomas remained puzzled
, and began to wonder again if this creature was after all a Devil’s familiar. No girl he knew of could talk of such matters. Still, she seemed human enough – indeed he could feel the warmth of her leg pressed against his thigh as he lay on the floor. Suddenly aware that he was still prostrate, he scrambled up and apologized for his abrupt entry. The girl rocked back on her haunches, looking up at him in amusement.

  ‘Hannah, might I suggest you take our guest to the kitchen and find him something to eat and drink? It will give him time to gather his wits.’

  Thomas was about to protest when he felt Hannah’s warm, soft hand slip into his. He allowed himself to be led down the corridor, enticed by the swish of Hannah’s dress and the slap of her feet on the stone flags. Passing a door to his right, his nose was assaulted by a variety of bewildering smells he could not place. Some of them reminded him of the countryside he had so recently left, others smelled of nothing he had ever encountered before. Looking through the open doorway, he was aware of a dimly lit room in which sparkled rows of vials and bottles set on shelves all around. Hannah’s insistent grip dragged him on however. As she led him through into the kitchen he glanced over his shoulder to see the old man disappearing into the room clutching a vial. It was from this that Thomas had seen the smoke of hell emanating when he had fainted.

  She had explained as Thomas ate that her father was a doctor with a wide knowledge of herbs and medicines. It was as she spoke that Thomas had become fascinated by her lips. Now his embarrassment was covered by a familiar voice at the other end of the corridor. There were hurried footsteps and the figure of Master Falconer appeared in the doorway. Any show of relief that flitted across his face was covered by the brusqueness of his voice.