by Ian Morson
‘Margaret Gebetz. Would you have said she was a stupid girl?’
Hannah frowned, a little disconcerted by the suddenness of the question. Seeing her hesitate, Falconer rephrased it.
‘Perhaps I should have said, was she a simple girl with a peasant education? After all, it is unusual for a girl of her background to be able to read.’
Hannah thought carefully before answering.
‘You must understand we only met briefly each time, while Father prepared remedies for her master.’
‘Even so.’ Falconer’s gaze seemed penetrating to Hannah, unaware of his poor sight. She licked her full lips nervously, and Falconer regretted his persistence. He smiled and, looking at Thomas who also seemed distraught by the pressure Hannah was under, said, ‘I have worked young Thomas hard already today. I am sure that he could benefit from a morsel to keep his strength up.’
Hannah was clearly relieved to have something to do, and hurried into the kitchen to fetch bread and wine. Thomas was about to speak, when Falconer held up his hand.
‘Don’t worry, I will be gentle with your sweetheart.’
Thomas blushed and was about to stammer a denial, when Falconer hushed him with a finger to his lips. He strode across the room to the door leading on to the main hallway of the house. There were voices in conversation, one of which Falconer recognized as Samson’s. He listened at the crack of the door as the herbalist explained a dosage to someone, his ears pricking up at the mention of bracken. The other person said he understood its usage. Someone whose fastidious tones Falconer thought he had discerned even as he spoke to Thomas. He inched open the door further and hissed for Thomas to come over.
‘Who is that with Samson?’
Thomas applied his eye to the crack with curiosity.
‘It’s a Master – oldish, short hair, sharp nose. If you looked for yourself …’
Falconer interrupted. ‘What is he doing?’
‘He is taking a parcel. Just collecting a remedy,’ offered Thomas, adding speculatively, ‘as you have.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Falconer mysteriously. At that point Hannah returned with a simple bowl of bread and fruit, and Thomas was left wondering what Falconer saw in a seemingly ordinary event. Falconer motioned Thomas to eat and began again.
‘Did Margaret say anything about her book when she gave it to you? Such as what it contained?’
‘No. She just said to keep it safe as her life might depend on it.’
‘Do you recall what it contained?’
‘Not really, I didn’t examine it after she had given it to me. And Thomas and I just glanced at it.’
Thomas nodded. ‘It was just some scripture and a book of days.’
Falconer was a little disappointed. Although it was odd why Bonham had not mentioned the scriptures. Only the calendar. Hannah then corrected him on one point.
‘And I’ve been thinking about what you said just now. Margaret couldn’t read. She said that’s why Master Fyssh trusted her with his messages. She even had to ask me once whose name was on a message.’
‘Odd that she should own a book, then.’
‘Oh, didn’t I explain? It was not her book – she had taken it from the person she was scared of. She said while she had it, it would protect her.’
Hannah gazed sadly into Falconer’s eyes. ‘It didn’t work, did it?’
Chapter Ten
Falconer was preparing himself for the banquet as well as he could. He took his best, indeed his only other, robe from the chest at the foot of his bed and spread it out. It was dull and green rather than black, and damp to his touch. He sighed – even the fur trim was moth-eaten. He spread it in front of the fire across his only chair and tried to draw some reasonable conclusions from the knowledge gained over the last few days, praying for guidance from Aristotle. Margaret Gebetz had been Fyssh’s servant with little or no opportunity to steal a book from anyone else. Could he deduce that the book had been Fyssh’s? Did it contain a secret, and was he therefore forced to kill her to keep her silent? Falconer was sure she had known her assailant. That fitted too. But if the murder of Moulcom was linked, why would Fyssh have committed that act, too? Unless Moulcom somehow knew of the first murder and had been using it against Fyssh. Perhaps that was why Moulcom had been at Beke’s Inn that day. Both victims could have been killed because of some dangerous knowledge associated with the missing book. Now others had seen the book – would they be next? And was Fyssh the killer? Falconer hesitated.
‘Forgive me, Aristotle. I am leaping to conclusions again.’
But what else fitted? There was something suspicious, too, about Bonham’s behaviour, what with the bloody knife. And he had lied about the contents of the book. But Falconer did not have enough facts to promote him above Fyssh. Of course there was also de Stepyng. Falconer sighed. With him he had no more than a feeling. He might as well suspect the chancellor.
Clearly, he would have to keep an eye on everyone today. At least at the banquet they would all be under one roof. He hoped also that placing Thomas in the kitchens might pay off. Two pairs of eyes were better than one, especially when one pair couldn’t see further than the end of his nose. That reminded him to ensure the parcel he had collected from Samson yesterday was safely stowed in his pouch. Then, turning to his steaming gown, he sighed and realized he would have to remain in his everyday garb.
John Fyssh had no such problems with his clothing. He indulged his desire for ostentation and had a chest bursting with robes of different hues. Clad only in his underlinen, he fingered various choices scattered across the bed. In the comer of the room, his knees pulled up and encircled by his arms sat the gloomy Hugh Pett. Fyssh grimaced at the boy.
‘You are no longer a pleasure to me, child. Forever miserable, when there is so much to look forward to.’
Hugh could not imagine at this moment what pleasure there could be for him in the future and buried his head into his knees. He heard Fyssh approach him and felt the fat man’s hand on his head, hot and sweaty. He decided then he must break away from his clutches, even if he had to reveal the depth of his sins to Master Falconer. Or kill the man himself. Fyssh put on a false, wheedling voice that Hugh had come to hate.
‘Now tell me what you think I should wear. Should it be the red or the blue? Which most suits my complexion?’
Looking at the flushed face of the awful grotesque, Hugh was tempted to suggest he would blend perfectly with the red, but bit his tongue. Fyssh was capable of terrible rages and uncontrolled acts.
‘Still silent, my pretty one? Well, I will deal with you some other time. I have more important matters to attend.’
He returned to the bed and picked up one of the undertunics. ‘The blue I think, and the purple surcoat with the white borders.’
He eased his massive frame into the garments, pressing the folds down with his hands as though caressing his figure. He carefully arranged a sugar-loaf shaped hat on his head, covering his incipient baldness, and finally belted a pouch around his ample waist. He primped himself before Hugh.
‘Tell me how I look.’
Huge gave no reply, so Fyssh grasped his chin in his fat fingers, squeezing his lips together in the parody of a pout.
‘Perhaps I will keep you. You are at least prettier than that horrid Northerner, Moulcom.’
Fyssh shuddered at the thought.
‘I was much cheered by his death. He came here throwing his weight around in search of that book everyone seems interested in. Well, now I know why and who should be worried about its existence.’
‘But the book is burned. Thomas said Master Bonham had burned it.’
‘Ah, you do still have a tongue. I do not know what your little friend was told, but it was a lie. I should know.’
He patted the pouch that hung at his waist.
‘And what I know will be of enormous value to me.’
As Thomas turned the spit, the heat of the fire roasting
him almost as much as the haunch of meat, he reflected that he had not come far from his parents’ farm after all. His vision of academic Oxford was now limited to the chancellor’s kitchen. The stone arch under which Thomas sat was carved with an array of devilish beasts, hanging as though in flight. Leathery wings and wild grimaces out of which poked serpents’ tongues menaced the unfortunate turnspit. The association of demons and the fire below was clearly a perpetual warning against straying from the straight and narrow. The ceiling was high to accommodate the heat and smoke, such that the upper part of the room, trussed with oak beams, was barely visible through the haze. The floor was of worn red bricks, stained with many ancient culinary accidents. Huge copper pots hung from the walls, along with a bewildering collection of strainers, graters and other devices whose use Thomas could not fathom. Across the great oaken table dominating the middle of the room was an army of knives, and a scarred wooden chopping block on which the cook was hacking a side of beef into small pieces. His huge hands raked the knife across the flesh, and images of Margaret Gebetz’s slit throat were conjured up in Thomas’s mind. Numerous other skivvies scurried hither and thither between pantry and scullery, buttery and larder. The cook marshalled his assistants, many of them poor students like Thomas, as though he were a king on a battlefield. Which in a way he was, for his position as master cook was revered generally, and the preparation of a successful meal required careful strategy. Victory could only be ensured with a careful deployment of resources.
Even though it had been Falconer’s idea for him to work at the banquet, Thomas was grateful for the meal he would earn doing so. He gazed in awe as the cook dumped handfuls of the chopped beef into a cauldron hung over the fire. He followed that up with an array of spices such as Thomas had never seen before. The cook intoned their names like some secret incantation as he put them in.
‘Ginger, cubebs, cloves, mace, cinnamon, sage and parsley.’
He plunged his hand into the already hot water and stirred all the ingredients together, muttering his pleasure. All would not be ready however, until the meat had stewed to a manageable mush, and further quantities of saffron, salt and vinegar had been added. The cook’s art would not be satisfied until it was impossible for the eater to know the meat amidst the host of flavours.
Falconer had been instrumental in getting Thomas into the kitchen preparing the banquet for Prince Edward for a specific purpose. Having been alerted along with the other regent masters of arts of the requirement to attend, he saw an opportunity to observe his principal suspects in the matter of the two murders. It was Thomas’s commission to keep an eye on things from the kitchen, and as a server of the food. When he asked Falconer what he was looking for, his reply was, as usual, enigmatic.
‘I do not know, but you will when you see it.’
It was another voice that brought Thomas back to the present – the harsher voice of the cook.
‘If you do not even have the brain to turn a spit properly, I do not think you will make a good student.’
Thomas muttered an apology and began again to turn the meat he had neglected in his daydream. He would have to do better to carry out Falconer’s wishes. As the cook returned to stir his stew, he asked him what the other, small pot was for.
‘Why the sauce, of course. It’s a pity there is no swan available as I know a good sauce to be made from its liver, heart and blood.’
There was a look of true regret on his red, perspiring face. His melancholy was interrupted by someone calling his name, and he turned towards the door. Hidden behind the cook’s generous frame, Thomas could not see who it was who had come to the kitchen until the cook turned away with a small packet in his hand. Then he saw Joshua’s profile as the Jew turned to leave. There was a livid purple bruise down the side of his face. Clearly he had survived the fall from the tower, and not in some superhuman way. The bruises showed he was as fragile as any Christian.
‘I also need more bay,’ called the cook.
Joshua turned his head back and looked into the kitchen, nodding. Thomas bowed his head, and was not sure whether Joshua had seen him or not.
‘At last,’ said the cook as he returned to the table with the packet. ‘I had run out of saffron.’
Restored to good humour, he then proceeded with great crushing thrusts to pound a pile of almonds in his mortar into a pulp.
It was already after sext and as Falconer made his way through the streets to the King’s hall, there were other regent masters hurrying to the feast. Falconer’s poor sight often gave others the impression that he was aloof. It was not so, he merely could not recognize faces until they were very close and was embarrassed to admit it. De Stepyng had no reservations about accosting him, however. He saw the large, slightly stooped figure ahead of him wearing everyday garb, and instantly recognized it as Falconer. He hurried to catch him up, having to put his hand on the other man’s sleeve before he acknowledged him. Why was Falconer so reticent, especially when it was necessary to find something out? He tried to fall in step with the other’s strides and found himself hurrying.
‘Falconer, do you know which side the slippery Edward is on for the moment?’
‘I am as ignorant of the court as the simplest peasant. Why ask me?’
De Stepyng’s breath came in harsh gasps as he rushed along beside Falconer. He was well beyond his fiftieth year.
‘It is important for all of us to know which side we are on, when the country is at war with itself,’ he lectured. ‘I myself am clearly with the barons in this matter. It is the only way to rid the country of Henry’s French clique who pervert his mind and bankrupt the nation.’
‘Yet Henry is still our king.’
De Stepyng’s anger was rising, yet it seemed an overreaction to Falconer.
‘I know what these idle hangers-on can do. They are so seductive. I have half a mind to refuse to eat with the prince, if he has returned to his father’s cause.’
‘The chancellor is for the barons’ cause, but can still eat with the son of the King of England. Myself, I’m just looking forward to some good food.’
Falconer’s flippancy seemed to put de Stepyng off and he strode beside him silently for a while. The ground was muddy and churned by the many feet making their way through the streets. Ahead in the growing crowd, de Stepyng saw Fyssh stepping fussily over puddles, and watched with curiosity as the fat man pulled a book from his purse and examined it as though for reassurance. He spoke curtly to Falconer.
‘The servant girl.’
Falconer turned his head questioningly.
‘Fyssh’s servant girl – did you assuage your curiosity about her death?’
The crowd got heavier as they passed through the narrow arch of Smith Gate. No king, or future monarch, set foot inside the walls of Oxford as there was a tradition that no good would come to one who did. King’s hall, in all its sumptuousness, was located beyond the walls. The crowd reminded Falconer again of a flock of crows squabbling over a corpse. Though now many had exchanged their sober, everyday clothes for more colourful attire. From their chatter, perhaps starlings were a more apt comparison. On the steps leading into the hall the two regent masters stood momentarily still as others jostled for a better place.
‘Aristotle has not yet shown me the answer, but the facts begin to indicate a probable person.’
De Stepyng did not wait to hear whether Falconer would reveal whom he suspected. He offered his own opinion.
‘The man you want is ahead of us. Fyssh killed his own servant.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because she knew.’
‘Knew? Knew what?’
The regent masters were now pushing each other like unruly students in their haste to be nearest the top table. De Stepyng was elbowed away from Falconer, but his final words were audible in the babel.
‘Of his ways with boys. Murder must be a minor step for a sodomist.’
That gave Falconer pau
se for thought, and he stood in the archway of the great hall fitting the new fact into his collection of truths. Abruptly he was reminded of where he was when those behind him began to push him in the small of his back, complaining at his large frame blocking the doorway. He turned to glare at the nearest man, small and pale-faced, and the voices around him immediately subsided. These were, after all, thinkers, not men of action. Falconer, with his chequered past, was more robust than most of the Masters, and they knew it. He turned back and ahead of him could just make out de Stepyng’s progress being stopped by Fyssh. Even with his poor eyesight, Falconer could tell it was him from the purple surcoat, which stood out from all others. Whether something was said or not, de Stepyng pulled away angrily. Then Falconer lost both in the crowd.
The hall was high with dark, heavy wooden buttresses supporting the roof arch. Banners hung from the walls, somewhat faded but discernible as royal. There were gaps where coats of arms of certain barons had been discreetly removed. Down the two long walls ran sturdy trestle tables with benches either side of them. The floor between the tables was freshly strewn with rushes and in the centre of the hall a good fire already blazed sending smoke plumes up to the louvre in the roof. Servants already scurried back and forth between the tables, and regent masters settled themselves in favoured places. Some, overly concerned with their social status, sat close to the dais at the far end of the room to be near the prince. Others, more practical, occupied places in the centre of the hall close to the fire.
Sufficient daylight filtered through the high, glazed windows not to require cressets in the body of the hall. However, candles blazed extravagantly on the white damask of the table set for the prince and chancellor on the dais. A single gold plate was set for the prince, with simpler items for the others on the high table. Perhaps the chancellor still did not wish to entirely commit himself and the university to the prince. Or did not wish to show how rich he was to avoid too high a contribution to the prince’s funds. However, there was one clear acknowledgement of the importance of the guest at the feast. The centre of the table was adorned with a nef in the form of a silver ship in full sail, its high prow and stern housing a salt-cellar, towels, and knives and spoons for the prince’s use. Falconer knew this ornament only came out on great occasions, and was de Cantilupe’s acknowledgement of Prince Edward’s future importance to his own career. The chancellorship of the whole of England was not beyond his grasp after all.
