by Ian Morson
‘Tell us, Peter. What has happened?’
Bullock took a deep breath.
‘There is a man in Dagville’s Inn who is ill with some sort of pox. I am afraid it may be a plague of some sort. I would have got Will Spicer the apothecary to take a look, but I fear he would refuse. He does not have a stout heart when it comes to the pox. Besides, you have a far greater knowledge of such ailments.’
Samson knew what Bullock said was true. He would not entrust any sick person to the care of Spicer the apothecary if he could help it. He equally knew he would need help, if he were to care for this man over a long period of time. He looked at Saphira hesitantly, not sure whether he had the right to ask it of her. She saved him the pain of asking by nodding.
‘I will help you. It will be a good way of learning about diagnosis and treatment.’
Bullock was not happy at this turn of events. He recalled the phlegm that had landed on his sleeve, and rubbed at the spot nervously.
‘No, Mistress Le Veske, you cannot come. The very air of the room is dangerous to breathe.’
Samson, who was already gathering some instruments and vials and thrusting them into a pouch, snorted in derision.
‘So you are now a physician as well as a constable, Peter Bullock.’
The constable face turned red, and he began to wave his arms.
‘No. But that room is no place for a woman just now. Besides, Falconer will never forgive me if …’
Samson took Bullock’s wind-milling arm.
‘Stop, stop, or I will have to give you another dose of hawthorn berries. Mistress Le Veske and I will protect ourselves. Depending on the cause of this man’s illness, I believe the danger is going to be from contact with the bodily fluids of the patient. We will be rigorous in avoiding them. But …’
He stopped Bullock’s new protest with a raised palm.
‘But, we will also wear a cloth across our mouths and noses, if that will please you.’
‘And a nosegay of sweet flowers and herbs. I have heard that that will protect you from the plague.’
Samson nodded patronisingly at the constable as if to a child.
‘And a nosegay too, though we have not yet decided if it is the plague. And may the Name protect us, if it is.’
Samson came as close to naming God as a Jew may, and Saphira had a sense of the perils they were about to encounter. She shivered but, determined to assist him, she picked up Samson’s pouch, which clinked with the bottles he had placed within. Grimfaced, the three of them went out on to Fish Street. Though it was late, there were still people walking around, blissfully unaware of the horror that was about to engulf them.
*
The next part of Merlin’s prophecy made Falconer’s blood run cold.
‘Say that again, Brother Aldwyn.’
The old monk looked solemnly at Falconer, knowing what the line he had just spoken implied.
‘It will have nothing to do with your birthing, as that took place so long ago.’
Falconer pulled a face.
‘Not all that much in the past, Aldwyn. I am only in my fifties. But read the line again.’
Aldwyn sighed, and shifted his gaze from the regent master to the writing on the page.
‘“The bellies of mothers shall be cut open, and babies will be born prematurely.” They do say the queen is pregnant again, and so this may refer to her next child.’
Falconer shook his head.
‘It says “bellies” and “babies” in the plural. The cutting was unusual in my mother’s day. You said so yourself. But this is a time when this operation has become more commonplace, is it not?’
Falconer couldn’t believe what he was saying. He, the great sceptic, was himself finding facts to fit Merlin’s prophecy. What was he thinking? Saphira and Peter Bullock would not believe their ears, if he told them what he was contemplating. And all because he had been persuaded to learn about his own past. He had spent fifty years neither caring about his ancestry, nor believing that his unknown parents could have any effect on the way his life developed. Yet now, on having been given the smallest clue about how he came into the world, he was imagining that some mythical being living in the mists of time, could predict the future. He laughed out loud at his own gullibility.
Aldwyn frowned, and closed his precious text, seeing he had lost Falconer’s attention. He made to rise from his chair.
‘I must go. It is getting late, and I have to get back to Oseney before dark.’
Falconer, regretting his rudeness, placed his hand on Aldwyn’s knee.
‘No, stay a while longer and have some food with me. The evenings somehow get longer when you are on your own, so I could do with some company.’
That was the truth, because he had recalled that Saphira, with whom he might have otherwise spent the evening, was now engrossed in her studies of potions and poisons with old Samson in Jewry. He all too often neglected his duties attending to the needs of the students who lodged in Aristotle’s Hall, preferring the womanly charms of Saphira Le Veske instead. Their relationship was an unusual one, being both across religions, and also flouting Falconer’s supposed celibacy as a regent master in holy orders. Their time together was snatched at moments when Falconer chose to ignore his duties and when Saphira’s maid, Rebekkah, had returned to her family for the night.
Tonight though, Falconer would attend to his proper duties, and be a true host to the old monk, who had given him some confirmation of the first splinter of information about his parentage. He knew Saphira would be safe behind the heavy oak door of Samson’s house, even if a riot broke out in Oxford that very night. Reassured, he called for one of his students to bring Aldwyn something to eat.
Chapter Six
Inside Dagville’s Inn it was eerily quiet, with the everyday noise from the street muffled by the closed door of the inn. That of itself made Bullock feel a cold shiver run up his spine, although he already knew what lurked behind the door. Every inn in the town would normally have its doors thrown wide open to welcome new customers. For this one to be firmly closed gave a clear sign of something seriously amiss. Saphira and Samson must have had the same feeling as he did, for they stood uncertainly in the open courtyard beyond the street door. With no soul to greet them, Saphira and Samson were not sure which way to turn. So they looked to Bullock for guidance.
‘This way.’
He led them across the hard, beaten clay of the yard and through another door on the opposite side. Beyond, stood a staircase, which creaked ominously as Thomas Dagville descended towards them. He frowned at the sight of the two people who accompanied Peter Bullock.
‘What’s this? What use to us are a woman and an old Jew? Where is the apothecary?’
The only answer from Samson was a faint frown and a lowering of his eyes to the ground. He would have turned to leave had not Saphira grasped his sleeve. Her flame-red hair, unruly strands of which escaped from her snood, should have been a warning to Dagville of her temperament. He ought to see that she would stand no nonsense from such a bigot as the innkeeper. But Dagville’s mind was closed. She stepped close up to him, hissing a warning in his face.
‘If you want to save the life of your customer, and with it the reputation of this excuse for an inn, then you will stand aside and let this expert physician …’ She gestured at Samson. ‘… get on with his work.’
Dagville was about to bring a retort to his tight-stretched lips, when a woman spoke up from behind him.
‘Thomas, don’t look any more foolish than you normally do. Let the Jew pass. It was he who saved my life when our little Robbie refused to come out into the world. He was here to help when you were too drunk to even notice what was going wrong.’
Grace Dagville stepped out of the shadows, and took Samson’s arm, ignoring the expression of pent-up fury on her husband’s face.
‘Hello Master Samson. Come this way, and I will show you the patient.’
She led Samson up the stairs, and Saphi
ra and Bullock followed, grinning at the tavern-keeper’s discomfiture. Dagville for his part kicked at the doorpost, and stormed across the yard to take out his anger on the young lad who looked after the stables.
The upper floor of the inn was even quieter than down in the yard. It was evident that nobody else was left in the rooms rented by travellers for their overnight stay. Grace saw the look on her visitors’ faces and explained.
‘There’s no-one else here to worry about. It is indeed fortunate that the knight was our only customer yesterday. He ate downstairs of course, but must have been feeling ill already. He kept to his corner, and was not bothered or intruded upon except by me. Since then he has been in his bed through there.’
She indicated a half-open door at an angle to the small landing at the top of the stairs. Darkness was falling outside, but the gloomy section of the room that could be seen appeared darker still. The air looked thick with vapours like an anteroom to Hell. Everyone present could feel this oppressive atmosphere leaking out from behind the door, and even Samson hesitated to enter. Saphira fumbled in the shoulder bag she was carrying, and produced two linen strips. She gave one to the old man, and began to wind the other round her nose and mouth. Samson just stood holding the cloth in his hand.
‘You know, my dear, I think I am too old to be worrying about all this. Besides, the poor man may be afraid if two masked robbers burst into his room.’
Grace Dagville, who was instinctively now holding a hand to her mouth, mumbled some fear-filled words to Bullock. The constable patted her shoulder, and guided her to the top of the stairs.
‘You go downstairs, Grace, and calm Thomas down.’
Relieved to be excused, Grace thanked Bullock with a look, and scurried down the stairs. After she had gone, the constable turned back to Saphira, who by now had enveloped her lower face in the linen cloth. But he could still see from her eyes that she was wondering what Grace had said.
‘She said the poor man is too far gone to be aware of anyone in his room, masked or not. So …’ He held out his hand to Samson. ‘… if you are not wearing that cloth, I am not too embarrassed to use it. I may be old too, but I don’t want to catch what he has got.’
Samson shrugged, and handed over the linen strip.
‘You don’t need to come in the room though, Peter.’
Bullock began binding the cloth around his face, but still his voice rang out harshly.
‘I am the representative of law and order in Oxford, and I think I do need to be there. So let’s get on with it.’
Saphira had never heard the constable be so abrupt, and guessed it had to do with the grave nature of the situation. They were all on edge, if not a little fearful, and the sooner they faced their fears the better. Samson recognised this too, and stepped resolutely round the half-open door. When his old eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he saw on the bed the figure of a half-naked man wrapped in a tangle of bedding. The fever was high and the crusader had been writhing around as he tried to toss off the linen from his burning body. Samson grimaced at the sight, and there were gasps from both Saphira and Bullock. The muffled voice of the constable spoke in Samson’s ear.
‘He’s covered in spots. When I saw him not so long ago, he had no more than a rash on his face.’
Samson’s only reply was a low groan. He knelt down beside the bed to examine his patient more closely. By now, even he was shocked, and he held a hand over his nose and mouth. After a moment he beckoned to Saphira.
‘Look, Mistress Le Veske, but do not come too close. See how the lesions are flat not raised.’
He stroked the knight’s mottled skin, causing Bullock to gasp in horror.
‘It is alright, constable, there is no danger to be had from touching his skin. All the same it would be wise for you to stay back.’
Bullock wasn’t too sure about the lack of danger, and when Saphira stepped forward to touch the lesions too, he growled out a warning. Saphira looked over her shoulder at him.
‘Don’t worry, Peter. I will be careful.’
As she touched the spots, Samson continued his lecture, apparently oblivious to the peril facing him.
‘See how the spots are flat and buried in the skin. How do they feel to you?’
Saphira continued stroking the man’s feverish skin.
‘They are soft and …’ She sought the right word. ‘… velvety to the touch.’
Samson sighed.
‘Yes, just so. It is as I feared.’
With the aid of Saphira’s arm, he rose to his feet, his old bones creaking at the abuse. The old Jew shook his head and stared Bullock in the eyes.
‘It is the red plague, as you might have guessed. Some call it the small pox.’
Bullock pulled a face that was not seen behind his linen mask.
‘That’s bad. How many will die who catch it? One in three?’
Samson looked at the floor, and paused before replying. When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes.
‘That would be a correct estimate, if it were the ordinary type of pox. But this is the malignant form of the red plague.’
‘And?’
‘It is nearly always fatal.’
Bullock stared at the figure on the bed, knowing that some hard decisions were coming his way. Covered as the body was with red spots, he was suddenly struck by the idea that the man looked as though he had been standing in a rain of blood.
*
He gasped on seeing the tomes that filled the chest before him. Earlier, he had once again prostrated himself before the altar, letting the chill of the stone slabs strike through his thin robe. He had felt it cool the fever that burned within his body, but it did not affect the heat in his brain. He was afire with righteous anger, and God’s words still rang in his ear. It was the name of Regent Master John Bukwode that he had been told, and it moved him. He had risen to his feet, his brain dizzy with exultation, and plunged out into the night. The streets were dark after curfew, and the only people he had seen were some drunken students skulking back to their hall under cover of night. On an impulse, he had followed them at a distance, and it came as no surprise to him that they led him to where he was intent on going. Corner Hall at the end of Shidyerd Street was ruled over by Bukwode, and that was where the students were returning. He took it as a sign of the righteousness of his actions that they had led him straight there. Trailing in the wake of the roistering boys, he hailed the last one through the front door of the hall.
‘Leave it open for me.’
The boy was too drunk to question who it was who was following him, taking him for a laggard amongst his band of fellow revellers. The door was thus left ajar, and he had entered Corner Hall with ease. Now he knelt in front of the book chest where Bukwode’s treasures were stored. One by one he lifted them out, shocked by their perversity. He mouthed their names like awful spells.
‘The Prophecies of Merlin, the Polychronicon.’
These he lay to one side, and delved further in the chest shocked at finding books of magic. These too he named in horrified undertones.
‘De pentagono Salomonis, Vinculum Salomonis, Sapientiae nigromanciae. ’
The three books he removed were also laid aside with the first two tomes. He would be pleased to purge them from the collection. He began to delve for more abominations, but heard a noise from somewhere. The creaking of floorboards or perhaps a door told him he should be satisfied with his haul and leave. So content with enough books to cope with in one night, he gathered the five works up, and slunk back towards the street.
The reason that Regent Master John Bukwode’s students had been revelling in the lowest of taverns was that he himself had been in one of the whore-houses in Grope Lane. Unfortunately, he had not had enough coin to engage the services of one of Sal Dockerel’s sluts any later than the tolling of the curfew bell. It was doubly unfortunate for Bukwode that, once he had been forced to leave the warm embraces of Peggy Jardine, he had come back to Corner Hall just as
the book thief was leaving. They encountered each other on the threshold. Bukwode was the first to react, and he hissed a warning to the intruder.
‘Who are you? And what are you doing with those books?’
He made to snatch the collection of heavy tomes from the thief, who reacted instinctively. He was holding one book in his right hand, with the others balanced precariously in the crook of his left arm. He lifted up the book in his hand, and brought the edge of it down on Bukwode’s skull. The Prophecies of Merlin had been well-bound with brass at the corners for protection. This sturdy chunk of metal stove in the regent master’s skull, and he fell to the floor as if poleaxed.
*
Peter Bullock left Dagville’s Inn resolved on carrying out an essential but contentious task. If he did as he thought he must, he would face censure, disapproval, and outright rebellion. But he knew he would have to hold fast. He stood at Carfax, the crossroads of the town, where the north-south and east-west thoroughfares intersected. It was dark, and he slowly turned a full circle, taking in the whole of Oxford. Strangely, no sounds disturbed the peace of the town. Even the noise of riotous students, so common to his ears usually, failed to breach the silence. It was as though every person in the town had had an awful presentiment of impending doom, and had retreated inside, barring their doors against the unknown horror. The town constable stood still for a moment savouring the silence. Soon there would be clamour aplenty to deal with. He struck out for North Gate first as it was the closest to where he stood. And the man on the gate was Thomas Burewald, his most calm and reliable right arm. But even he paled when Bullock announced his intentions.
‘Lock up the town?’
Bullock nodded grimly.
‘Let no soul in or out?’
‘Exactly.’
Burewald shook his head.
‘For how long? A day? Two days?’
Samson had told the constable that the pox festered for twelve days before it showed itself. If Sir Hugo de Wolfson had wandered around Oxford since his arrival, then anyone who had caught the disease from him would not know for that length of time. He paused before breaking the bad news to Burewald, then took a deep breath.
