Falconer's Crusade

by Ian Morson

  ‘No! You can’t do this. It’s blasphemy,’ he gasped.

  ‘You are telling me, a regent master of the University of Oxford, what constitutes blasphemy,’ snarled Bonham. ‘And hold that light still.’

  Bullock was about to retort when his friend Falconer grasped his arm tightly.

  ‘Believe me, Peter. It is vital.’ His piercing eyes convinced the constable he had to go through with it.

  ‘Very well. But I want no part of it.’ He thrust the lamp at Falconer and retreated to the gloom, leaning on a pillar and turning away from what was to happen.

  Bonham sighed with exasperation and selected a small knife from the array at his side. Over the stomach of the dead girl he cut through the cloth first, still stiff with dried blood. Revealing the blue-grey flesh beneath, he cut through that as though it were no more than another layer of cloth. With no blood to seep out, Falconer himself could not quite believe it was a human body that Bonham was cutting into. Having made two incisions, he peeled back the frozen flesh and plunged his hands into the girl’s abdomen. Feeling around, he pulled up what he sought and cut away again.

  ‘There’s your answer, Falconer.’ Bonham leaned back and rubbed his hands clean in the dry earth.

  Falconer brought the lantern lower and looked at the other man’s handiwork.

  ‘It is just as I thought.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thomas de Cantilupe had eyes on greater preferment. His desire was to be Chancellor of all England. With this in mind he was now paying court to the very man whom he hoped could do that for him. In his sumptuous rooms, belying his image as an ascetic he spoke to the man who could be the next ruler of England. Strangely, that man was not so certain himself that he wished to be so.

  Seated on the opposite side of the table from de Cantilupe, the remains of a meal spread between them, the man shifted his large frame in the heavily carved chair. His clothes were drab, betraying no indication of his identity, yet fitted his muscular frame well. Well beyond his fiftieth year, he was still imposing and virile with a full head of iron-grey hair. However his handsome face, bronzed through many a campaign, seemed tired and drawn. The Earl of Leicester was a man of paradoxes, unable to quite convince himself that he wanted to overthrow the crown. And yet happy to use the ultimate power of sovereignty for his own ends. It seemed he now wanted to talk to Prince Edward. Indeed he had ridden all the way from Kenilworth after learning that the prince had stopped off at Oxford on returning from the Welsh Marches. He had arrived unannounced with only two trusted men-at-arms to protect him. And all this despite a barely mended leg, which some weeks earlier he had broken in a fall.

  De Cantilupe realized the man was still uncertain about removing both King Henry and his offspring. Even though Edward had, barely days before, broken a truce with Earl Simon’s own son, he thought he could make accommodations with him. The earl wanted de Cantilupe to arrange a meeting with Edward, still ensconced in King’s hall. This suited the ambitions of de Cantilupe, who would be seen by both sides in the conflict as an arbiter. Much as he might wish Earl Simon de Montfort success, his own ambition demanded he be on the winning side. Whichever it might be.

  He poured more wine for the earl and listened as the older man spoke.

  ‘I must achieve this meeting with all secrecy. No one must know it has happened. The safety of England may depend on that.’

  ‘I will myself act as intermediary, and can assure you that no one else will know you were even in Oxford. Except for your men-at-arms of course.’

  De Montfort looked sharply at the chancellor.

  ‘I can trust them. I must still learn if I can trust you.’

  De Cantilupe flushed, but bowed his head in acknowledgement of the rebuke. Having left the chancellor in no doubt as to who was in control, de Montfort proceeded to win him over by sharing confidences. He sighed deeply.

  ‘Forgive me. If I seem a little over-cautious, it is because strange things have happened to my family since my father led the Crusade against the Cathar heretics in France. My brothers have all three died mysterious deaths, and it is my habit of many years to be distrustful.’

  De Cantilupe was mollified.

  ‘My servant doesn’t know who you are. And if you keep to your quarters, he will not have chance to assuage his curiosity.’

  ‘Good. Then I will take the opportunity to catch up on my sleep.’

  Thomas still was not sure he had taken the right steps. There was pleasure in sitting with Hannah in the tiny back room of Samson’s apothecary. But what he had to tell her was of no pleasure, and he did not quite know whether he should be doing it. After Falconer had left him, he had come straight to search out Hannah yet again on an impulse. He blushed to think of the real motive he had for communicating with her. If he needed someone to reason with, then there were fellow students aplenty to talk to. Nor did he really care what happened to Joshua, who had, after all, tried to kill him. No, it was Hannah’s approval he sought, and merely being able to be close to her. For a boy brought up in the rude context of a farm, he was now curiously diffident with this strange and self-willed girl.

  But he was now committed to his task. Hannah listened carefully, her ivory brow furrowed in a frown and her full lips pursed, as Thomas explained that suspicion for the murder of Margaret was turning towards Joshua.

  ‘Then I must warn him immediately. Some people don’t even need the suspicion of a misdeed to persecute us.’

  Thomas flushed again at the thought of his own attitude to Jews of only a few days ago, and bowed his head. She tentatively touched his hand.

  ‘And there are those who only see another human being in need,’ she said gently. He looked up expectantly, but she was already hurrying out of the room to pass on the warning to Joshua. All Thomas had to do now was to face the possible wrath of his Master.

  If that was to come, it would be soon. For almost as soon as Hannah had slipped out of the back of the room, Thomas heard Falconer’s voice in the adjoining area where all Samson’s remedies were prepared. He thought it politic not to betray his presence for the moment and squeezed back behind the large wing of the bench on which he sat.

  Edward Skepwyth and John Samon were both Northerners and drinking companions. They had studied hard and decided to forego their supper for an afternoon of drinking. They resented the ascendancy of the Southerners at the university, and had fallen to talking about the Black Congregation and the chancellor bowing the knee before Prince Edward at the recent banquet. Like many of their fellows they supported the baronial cause and Simon de Montfort in particular. When another of their friends, Stephen de Hedon, arrived at the tavern in the late afternoon, they were drunk on the cheap and potent brew served there. The landlord was not one to water his ale, and they were frequent customers.

  Stephen soon downed the remains of their jug, called for more, and proceeded to tell them of the sight he had seen on his way to the tavern. Leaving Cat hall, where he lodged, he had been passed by no less than the chancellor of the university accompanied by three men. They had been hurrying along, no doubt on an errand of some secrecy. Stephen had not been able to identify the three other men, who had been dressed in ordinary soldiers’ clothes. But he knew the chancellor, having only recently been before his court for beating a Welsh student who abused him. He had watched them leave the city by Smith Gate at the end of Cat Street.

  ‘He would have been on his way to fawn over Edward again no doubt,’ declared John Samon.

  All three were consumed with anger over this apparent support for the King on de Cantilupe’s part, unaware that one of the three ordinary soldiers had been Earl Simon himself. The drink fuelled their anger and, as the afternoon wore on, they resolved to collect some like-minded friends and show that they were not afraid of Edward – King’s son or not.

  ‘It is done.’

  Hannah’s swift return took Thomas by surprise. He was still straining to hear what Falconer wa
s saying to Samson. She too then heard the regent master’s voice, and her mouth set in a determined line. She grabbed Thomas’s sleeve and despite his protestations dragged him into the next room. Both men looked up in surprise as Hannah burst in on them. She could not contain her anger.

  ‘It is no good you looking for Joshua now as your scapegoat. He has been warned and will be far from Oxford by now.’

  Falconer looked puzzled at the outburst, then saw the hapless boy being dragged along reluctantly by his sleeve.

  ‘Thomas. What have you been saying?’

  There was anger in his voice, and Thomas was beginning to regret coming to Jewry.

  ‘He told me that someone fed you a fairytale about Joshua and Margaret, and you believed him.’

  ‘Oh, did I?’

  ‘Don’t deny that is why you are here.’

  ‘I am here to collect some facts from my friend, your father. What a pity you are not disciplined enough to discover the truth before acting, Thomas.’

  The boy began to protest.

  ‘You said when Master de Stepyng left that he had given you a most valuable fact.’

  ‘And so he did, but I didn’t say what that fact was.’

  Falconer could see he was rapidly losing everyone else in the room. It rather satisfied his vanity that he could see clearer than most, despite his short sight. But of course he owed it all to the rigour of his Aristotelian training, and he should seek to pass it on.

  ‘Thomas, the fact that Master de Stepyng gave me was that he said he had no connection with France. As for the matter of Joshua’s supposed dalliance with Margaret and its inevitable result, Bonham and I tested that out. There was no child.’

  Thomas opened his mouth to ask how the truth could have been verified. Then he realized Falconer had included Bonham in his explanation. He thought about the eviscerated Moulcom, lying in Bonham’s cellar, and felt sick. He did not think he had the stomach for the Master’s empirical science.

  ‘What reason would de Stepyng have to lie to you?’

  Hannah snorted. ‘The best reason of all, probably.’

  Falconer looked long at the girl, for he had come to the same conclusion long ago. Still he said nothing, for the discipline of deductive reasoning required truths not surmise. Sometimes he regretted the demands of logic. But in his mind he began to reorder the truths he had laid out many times before in a rough patchwork. Gradually a clearer picture formed before his eyes. Not a patchwork, but a rich and unbroken tapestry. Except the book still refused to fit. The picture was about to unravel, when another small matter floated up to the fore of his mind. He was unsure of its significance, but asked anyway and afterwards was glad he had.

  ‘Tell me, Samson. The day you gave me my eye-lenses, why was de Stepyng here? What potion did you give him?’

  ‘I do not think I have ever dealt with Master de Stepyng.’ Samson looked puzzled. ‘Perhaps your eyes deceived you.’

  ‘No, no.’ Falconer got impatient. ‘Thomas, you saw him. You described him to me, and you have seen him since.’

  Thomas nodded vigorously to confirm his Master’s statement.

  ‘Then you are both mistaken. I know the man you must have seen – he was collecting some poison for rats distilled from the root of bracken. That is Master Belot.’

  With a trembling hand, Falconer drew the bloodied book cover from his pouch and reread the almost illegible family inscription.

  ‘Belot,’ he whispered.

  Another truth was in place. The tapestry virtually complete.

  De Cantilupe was pleased with himself. He had brought together the two most powerful men in the kingdom at the moment. Except for King Henry, and he was a weakling who had dispersed his power to the foreigners who surrounded him. It was no good seeking favour of the King – preferment lay with either his son, Edward, or with Simon de Montfort. And both were now beholden to him as a broker in the dispute that was splitting the nation.

  He hugged himself, pressing the hair shirt he wore roughly into his body. Pleased he may be, but he must remember humility in all matters. However his pleasure almost caused him to break out into a jig, and he was only stopped by the gentle cough of Halegod. The chancellor pulled himself together and turned to the doorway in time to see his servant thrust aside by Master de Stepyng. Halegod pulled himself upright and, with as much dignity as he could muster, turned and left, muttering under his breath.

  De Stepyng seemed unusually on edge, and, with a wave of his hand, de Cantilupe invited him to speak.

  ‘I thought you might wish to know that the matter of the Jews is resolved. I have seen with my own eyes Falconer hurrying into Jewry, the fire of truth in his eyes. I also fanned the flames a little with the town constable – a prejudiced man who will serve our purpose.’

  The Chancellor watched de Stepyng as he paced up and down, the candle flames flickering on his hatchet-face. He seemed to want something more, and interpreting the man’s mood according to his inclinations, guessed that de Stepyng sought some preferment for his actions. This was confirmed by the Master’s next question.

  ‘The mutual friend of whom we spoke, for whom action against the Jews would be advantageous, would he hear soon of what I have done?’

  De Cantilupe, forgetting all humility, could not forbear the hint of his involvement in affairs of State.

  ‘It so happens I have spoken to him only this afternoon, and he is at this very moment in King’s hall …’

  He stopped himself in time from revealing that Edward also was still there. It did not matter if a regent master knew of the presence of Earl Simon, but he must not reveal the existence of the meeting about which he had been sworn to secrecy. Anyway it was clear that de Stepyng cared nothing about whether Edward was still present, for he now seemed most anxious to leave.

  ‘Forgive me, Chancellor. I have interrupted you at a late hour, and will leave you to your contemplations of humility.’

  With that, he left the chancellor to wonder if he had been complimented or mocked.

  John Samon, Edward Skepwyth and Stephen de Hedon had split up and were each gathering a group of friends, all keen on causing their own mischief in the turmoil that was England. Although it had begun as a means of showing the Southerners where the friends’ sentiments lay, this had been forgotten in the excitement. Students from the two nations of North and South had aligned themselves with the barons, and the thought of showing Prince Edward their feelings was as intoxicating as the ale most of them had consumed.

  The three instigators had arranged to meet outside the schools of arts and from there to sally forth through Smith Gate and to King’s hall. It was an inconvenience that the King and his family stayed by tradition outside the walls of the city. However the gate would still be open, even though the hour was getting late. Indeed the hour, and the fact it had given ample time for drinking, meant that the numbers exceeded even John’, Edward’, or Stephen’s expectations. There were soon a hundred or more excited students milling around the end of Schools Street and in the lane that ran the length of the city walls. There would undoubtedly be some fun tonight.

  Falconer had decided it was politic to inform the chancellor of his knowledge before confronting de Stepyng. After all, there seemed no rush to imprison the man, probably still unaware that Falconer had divined the truth. On his way to the chancellor’s residence with Thomas in tow, he had encountered Peter Bullock. The constable lurched alongside him, at last being able to explain that he had incarcerated Hugh Pett, who had seemed determined to assume the guilt of Fyssh’s death. Falconer had cheerfully informed him that the boy could not be responsible, and that if Bullock followed him to the chancellor’s residence he would learn who was guilty. In the meantime it would do Hugh no harm to ponder on his sins in solitude.

  Thus it was that the Master, his student and the constable arrived at the chancellor’s door to barely miss the man they sought. The fussy Halegod seemed more discourteous than
usual as he led the group into de Cantilupe’s presence. The chamber was cold, which was odd for the comfort-loving chancellor, and lit by only two candles. They illuminated the face of de Cantilupe, who stood at a lectern over a sumptuously illustrated Bible. He was frowning and looked up to ask his visitors about humility.

  ‘It says in Matthew, “Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased, and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.” Have I not always striven to follow that in my behaviour?’

  Falconer did not have time for the chancellor’s fancies, and began to explain that he now knew who had killed Margaret Gebetz, Master Fyssh and no doubt Jack Moulcom. He rushed on in his eagerness, despite the puzzlement showing on de Cantilupe’s face, yellow in the candlelight.

  ‘He is, or at least his family was, heretic and Margaret knew of it, coming from the same region of Languedoc where it still has a hold. She obviously fled its influence only to find a Perfectus in Oxford. For some reason this mattered to him here and now enough to kill to keep it secret.’

  De Cantilupe raised his hand.

  ‘Wait. What heresy? And who are you accusing?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ Falconer smiled at his own haste, ‘It’s Robert de Stepyng, and the heresy is Catharism. Though why after all this time it matters, I don’t know.’

  He stopped as de Cantilupe’s face paled in shock.

  ‘I can tell you. It matters to Simon de Montfort, because it was his father who was the leader of the Catharist Crusade in the Languedoc. He thought his family was dogged by the consequences of that. And I have just told de Stepyng where Earl Simon is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He is in King’s hall at this very moment. But you will never catch up with de Stepyng now. It is too late.’

  His head slumped over the Bible, and his knuckles showed white as he clutched the edges of the page. However it was not in Falconer’s nature to give in, when so close to the solution of a mystery. He quickly motioned to Thomas.