by Ian Morson
‘Two weeks. We cannot allow the pox to spread any further. God knows, some who have caught it may have left the town already. There is nothing we can do about that. What we can do is prevent it going any further.’
Burewald felt as if he had been punched in the stomach and all the wind knocked out of him.
‘Two weeks! There will be riots. Recall what happened ten years ago when just Smith Gate was locked.’
Bullock knew exactly what his watchman was referring to. In 1264 in the confusion over his and William Falconer’s search for a murderer, he had been persuaded to lock the small gate that gave students access to fields outside the town walls. It had caused a riot, the consequences of which were only offset by the pleasure of a murderer being caught. Burewald pressed home the point still more.
‘Now you are saying we should lock all the town gates for two weeks. It’s impossible.’
But Bullock was adamant.
‘Not if we explain our purpose.’
He clutched Burewald’s arm, squeezing it hard.
‘Do this for me, Thomas. I need your support, and all will be well. Inge and all the others will fall in line, if you are with me.’
Burewald grimaced, but eventually nodded. Bullock thanked him, and went on his rounds to pass the news to all those who guarded the other gates of the town. Tomorrow, Oxford would be a town sealed off from the outside world.
Chapter Seven
Though he had eaten well and it was now quite late, Brother Aldwyn insisted that he should return to Oseney Abbey forthwith. Falconer found he could not persuade him otherwise.
‘What I insist on doing then, Aldwyn, is accompanying you to the South Gate. Oxford evenings can be quite rowdy, I’m afraid.’
The elderly monk, who was actually fearful of a chance encounter on the streets of the university town with drunken youths, expressed his gratitude. Old bones, once broken, took a long time to mend, and he would rather avoid any confrontation.
‘Thank you, Master Falconer. I will not refuse your kind offer.’
Aldwyn clutched his precious volume of Merlin’s prophecies to his chest as they emerged from Aristotle’s Hall. But in the end, their walk through the back lanes of the town, past St Frideswide’s Priory, coming out opposite St Aldate’s Church, was uneventful. To Falconer’s ears, the town was unusually silent, but he wasn’t going to complain about that. He was glad that, for once, peace reigned in the turbulent town. However, his comfortable feeling did not last long. As the two men approached the southern gate of the town, they could see the main gates were closed. Even so, there was nothing unusual in that, as men on horseback or driving carts were forbidden to enter or leave so late. The small wicket gate set to one side could be opened to let travellers on foot through. But suddenly a nervous figure stepped out of the darkness, calling out to them.
‘Stop there, and return home. You cannot leave by this gate tonight.’
Falconer recognised the voice of Will Sekyll, a dull and somewhat dim-witted young fellow, whom Peter Bullock had employed as nightwatchman the previous year. It had been a kindness to his family, who couldn’t find him any other work. Falconer smiled and took another step forward.
‘Will, it’s me, Master Falconer. Don’t you recognise me? I have Brother Aldwyn with me from Oseney Abbey. He is anxious to return there tonight, so be a good fellow and open the side gate.’
The youth frowned, clearly perplexed by this conundrum. Constable Bullock had told him expressly that no-one was to enter or leave by the South Gate only a short time ago. Now Master Falconer, whom he knew was a close friend of Peter Bullock’s, was telling him otherwise. In the end, his fear of Bullock’s anger was greater than Falconer’s, whom he knew as an amiable man, who would understand his orders. He pulled a face, but stood his ground.
‘I’m sorry, Master Falconer, but I have my orders. The constable said I’m not to let anyone through this gate tonight. Not until I am told otherwise.’
It was Falconer’s turn to be puzzled. This was a most unusual situation, and he assumed that Will Sekyll had got his orders wrong. However, from the set of the young man’s face, Falconer knew it was pointless arguing. He turned to Aldwyn, and shrugged his shoulders.
‘It would seem that you can’t use this gate. I have no doubt that young Sekyll has his orders mixed up, but there is no use in disputing it with him. Let us go to the castle, and find Peter Bullock. If nothing else, he will be able to let you out the postern gate.’
Though most people used the four main gates to get in and out of Oxford, there were two more means of passing through the fortified walls. One was within the confines of the Franciscan friary that straddled the walls just below the castle. And the other was close by the castle itself, where there was a small postern gate in the walls that debouched on to the marshy ground leading to Oseney Abbey. This latter was the one that Falconer proposed that Aldwyn should use. Once he had made Peter Bullock aware of the problem with Will’s misunderstanding at South Gate.
Oxford was a town of churches with thirteen within its walls alone. So the two men’s route to the castle could be navigated by some of those churches. Passing St Michael’s at South Gate, they walked up the quiet thoroughfare of Fish Street to St Aldate’s, where they turned left. Passing St Ebbe’s, they hurried on in the near dark along Freren Street to end up crossing the castle moat. Having entered the castle gate, they passed into the vast courtyard dominated by the old keep. St George’s Church stood to one side of the open space, and half-hidden by it was St George’s Hall, the quarters of the constable of Oxford.
The door to the hall stood half open, and Falconer could hear raised voices coming from inside. One of them was that of Peter Bullock, and he sounded very weary.
‘It is impossible, Master Sparrow. You cannot leave and there’s an end of it.’
The other voice was redolent of good wine, and a well-filled belly, its tones being rich and meaty.
‘I find I must remind you, Bullock, that as an alderman of this town, it is I who appointed you in the first place. I can as easily rescind your appointment, and put someone more sensible in your place.’
‘That’s as may be, alderman.’ Bullock placed a mock obsequious stress on Sparrow’s title. ‘But until such time as I am replaced, what I say goes, and I say no-one enters or leaves this town for two weeks.’
Falconer heard Aldwyn gasp at this confirmation of Will Sekyll’s statement, knowing the monk must be as shaken as Falconer himself was. What was going on that required the whole town to be so sequestered? And for two weeks at that. Falconer marched towards the open door, only to be barged aside by a fat and very red faced man. Alderman Sparrow strode off across the courtyard, muttering dire threats about the intransigent constable. Falconer and Aldwyn stepped cautiously through the doorway, half expecting more angry people to fall upon them. Inside, a bright fire in the centre of the old hall lit the outline of a droop-shouldered Bullock. His back was to his new visitors, but even this aspect of the constable told a story of heavy burdens bearing down on the man. Falconer tried to put some joviality into the question burning on his lips.
‘Whatever has happened, Master Bullock, that requires such dire action?’
Falconer was shocked by Bullock’s savage response. The constable half turned, already cursing him.
‘Don’t you dare question my decision, William Falconer.’
Falconer raised his hands in submission, and Bullock’s face suddenly fell, embarrassed by his outburst. He scratched his balding head, and sighed.
‘Forgive me, old friend. But tonight is not the night for levity.’
At Falconer’s side, Aldwyn coughed anxiously, nudging the master with the edge of his tome. He clearly wanted the situation resolved and his return to Oseney Abbey expedited. Falconer gave him a warning glance, and walked over to the troubled Bullock.
‘We have only just heard from Will Sekyll at South Gate. So you can imagine that we thought he had his orders all wrong. What else
would anyone think when told the gates are to be closed for two weeks.’
Bullock grimaced.
‘At least two weeks.’ He looked past Falconer at his companion. He could tell from his robes that the monk came from Oseney Abbey.
‘So I am sorry, brother, but you are trapped here as we all are for a while.’
As he said these words, Bullock made a gesture with his hand taking in another person, who had been lurking in the shadows beyond the glow of the fire. A swarthy man stepped forward and bowed rather awkwardly, a hank of long black hair falling over his shoulder as he did so.
‘This is Isaac Doukas. He is secretary to Robert Burnell, who was here on business in Oxford. His master was fortunate to have left earlier, his business done with Chancellor de Bosco. Unfortunately, Isaac remained to complete some notes, and was caught in my trap.’
A man less like a secretary Falconer could not imagine. Doukas was dark-skinned, stocky, and well-muscled, his bare arms betraying someone who habitually wielded a sword rather than a pen. But then Falconer had to remind himself he had been a mercenary soldier in his younger days, and was now a regent master of the university. Perhaps this Greek had made the same transition. He returned the man’s bow, and then picked up on something Bullock had said earlier.
‘Two weeks, you say?’
Bullock pulled a face, and nodded. Aldwyn, having been a monk who had worked at Bartlemas hospital was beginning to understand. The definitive period of time alluded to by the constable could only have one meaning.
‘Two weeks? Is there some infection in the town?’
‘Yes. I fear it is the red plague, or small pox, as some call it.’
‘Are you certain? It could easily be something else far less dangerous.’
The shaking of Bullock’s head made Aldwyn shudder.
‘I am afraid it is confirmed by the Jew, Samson. He is knowledgeable in such matters, and says it is the malignant form of the plague. Inevitably fatal in most of those who catch it, he says. The man who has it is at Dagville’s Inn. They are caring for the poor fellow now, but his fate is sealed, I fear.’
Falconer’s heart pounded in his breast at the implications of Bullock’s incautious words.
‘They, did you say, Peter? Saphira was supposed to be with Samson this evening learning about medicines. Don’t tell me she is with him at the bedside of this man?’
Bullock looked sheepishly at the floor.
‘I am afraid she is, William. She …’
He could hardly get the words out his mouth before Falconer gave him a hard look and spun on his heels. His reproof was thrown over his shoulder as he ran out of the hall.
‘Damn it, Peter, could you not have stopped her? She is risking her life.’
Bullock called after him in exasperation born of his sense of guilt.
‘I tried to stop her, but you know what she is like. She’s more stubborn than you.’
But Falconer wasn’t listening, he had already gone. The constable slumped in his chair, speaking to himself now his friend was out of earshot.
‘You can’t ever stop her doing just as she wishes. What chance had I?’
*
John Peper was regretting bringing the small band of jongleurs back to Oxford. In better days, they had travelled around in their own wagon, which also served as a place to sleep. But recently the troupe had fallen on hard times and were reduced to pushing the tools of their trade around in a handcart. In the countryside they could always find a barn to lay their heads in. But in a town like Oxford, patrolled by watchmen at night, they couldn’t even find a corner to rest that didn’t involve paying for it. Last night, Peper had dug into the shrinking contents of the communal purse to pay for a room at the Golden Ball Inn. It had been just about big enough for the four of them. Their purse would need to be replenished before they tried to find accommodation again.
So earlier today, they had entered a nameless tavern in Grope Lane, and Peper had begun his patter.
‘Friends, I come to bring you pleasure.’
In truth, he was not as good as their old barker, but that man was dead and gone. John did his best, and though his voice was loud, it didn’t seem to penetrate the buzz of conversation in the tavern. Undeterred, he had pressed on.
‘I am Master John Peper, and I bring you jongleurs who have performed before kings, and at a private audience with the Pope. Tonight, however, we perform not for the idle nobility, but for you.’
At last, a few curious looks were cast his way by drinkers who were not yet so far in their cups as to be oblivious to him. Before their attention could drift away, he lifted the black cloak he was wearing with one outstretched arm.
‘I bring you the sinuous Margaretha.’
He waved his arm to reveal his wife in a thin brown shift and tight hose. Margaret bent over backwards at her waist until her hands were on the ground behind her feet. The crowd gasped at the seemingly impossible feat, as she held her stance for a moment, then flipped over backwards twice, landing on her feet just in front of a red-faced silversmith who dropped his tankard of ale in the rush-strewn floor in surprise. The crowd shouted their approval, though John imagined it was more to do with the exposing of Margaret’s limbs, still trim after all the years she had been a saltatore, than with any amazement at her dexterity. Next, Simon Godrich essayed a ballad, but the moment had been lost when Margaret had finished her routine. They had all beaten a hasty retreat when the cat-calling had begun.
Now, John turned to his wife and asked how much they had collected at the tavern they had performed in. She pulled a face, and tipped a few small coins on to palm.
‘Not enough to even cover the cost of our room here for another night.’
She waved her hand in the air, taking in the low-ceilinged cramped quarters that huddled under the very roof of the inn. It was the cheapest room they could find at short notice. Robert Kemp the juggler cursed their fifth, missing member roundly.
‘Where the hell is Will? He was to go ahead to drum up trade, and make sure we had somewhere to stay between Wallingford and here.’
Peper sighed. He had been wondering where Will Plome had been for the last week. As Kemp had stated, he was supposed to have gone from village to village announcing the arrival of the small band of jongleurs. But wherever they had stopped, they couldn’t find anyone who had seen him.
‘Damned silly boy. I knew he was too stupid to trust with such a task. And after he had learned his letters from that priest too.’
Will Plome was actually more than a boy. At twenty-six, he should have been considered a man, but was so slow-witted and so innocent of visage that most people still treated him as a boy. In Wallingford, where they had over-wintered the previous year, he had fallen in with a priest, who taught him his catechism for the first time. Then Will had been so eager to learn to read, that the priest had agreed to try and teach him. To the surprise of everyone in the troupe, he had picked up reading well enough to decipher some of the play texts that John Peper kept carefully stowed away in their cart. But trusting him with travelling ahead of the troupe had proved disastrous, and now Peper had taken a decision.
‘We will leave Oxford tomorrow early, and try our luck towards Woodstock. They do say the king is there at the moment.’
Kemp and Godrich grunted their agreement, and settled in the far corner of the room, leaving what privacy they could to the Pepers. None of them knew their plans would fall apart the following morning.
Chapter Eight
The streets of Oxford were deserted with not a glimmer of candlelight coming from any of the houses Falconer ran past. As he reached Fish Street, he could smell the stink of the open drain that ran the length of it. He had never noticed it before, not during the day, when all the bustle and noise seemed to drown out the odours. Now, the stench of human ordure seemed to reflect the dark underside of the town, and the vile infection that must already be running through its alleys.
He shivered at the thought of it
taking Saphira away from him. It cost him so much to have the life they did have together. Canon law sought to discourage any sort of intimacy between Jews and Christians, including dining or bathing in the company of Jews, consulting Jewish physicians, or taking medicine compounded by a Jew. Though these laws were commonly ignored — Grace Dagville had had good reason to be grateful for the services of Samson when her child refused to come forth into the world — there was a peculiar loathing of deeper intimacies. And secular laws had sanctions for anyone violating the ban, ranging from fines and confiscation of property to castration and death by burning. Falconer’s life with Saphira was therefore secret for good, practical reasons even leaving aside his supposed celibacy. The effort of hiding this intimacy, was all the more reason for him not to lose her to the plague.
He hurried along the High Street and towards Dagville’s Inn. Ominously, the door was closed, and when he pushed against it, he realised it was bolted also. He beat with his fist on the weathered surface, in his anxiety skinning his knuckles on the studs that reinforced the door. He sucked the blood off his damaged hand and, hearing no sound from behind the obdurate door, beat again with the flat of his palm. Suddenly, the door opened, but only a crack, allowing Thomas Dagville to press his face to the opening.
‘We are closed. It’s the middle of the night. Besides, we’ve had a family bereavement.’
He went to close the door again, but Falconer grabbed the edge of it with his bleeding fist.
‘I know what is afoot here, Dagville. And if you don’t allow me in, I shall let all your neighbours know of the infection that lurks here.’
Dagville’s face turned ashen, and he grabbed Falconer’s arm, dragging him inside the inn. He slammed the door and threw the bolt again. Leaning back against it for support, he stared at Falconer wide-eyed.
‘What do you want with us?’
‘I want to speak to the lady who is in attendance on the man who is infected. Is she still with him?’
