by Ian Morson
‘Hello?’
A monkish figure in black emerged from behind the high altar, and came forward until he stood with one hand on the arch of the rood screen. Cursing his poor eyes, Falconer approached cautiously, not wishing to scare off the man as he had done with Chetwyn. This man stood his ground, however, though he looked anxiously at Falconer’s approach. As Falconer got closer, he saw the pale, ethereal face of Richard Yaxley, the feretarius or guardian of the shrine. The Augustinian monk, the waxy cast of whose features were a result of a life spent inside the church, spoke up.
‘Perhaps we should keep our distance from each other, master.’
Falconer stopped in his tracks for the second time that morning.
‘Perhaps so, brother.’
‘Do you come seeking solace in the Lord for the horror inflicted on us? I am afraid the prior is not here, though you are welcome to pray alone.’
Falconer, who had long since ceased praying to God for anything, shook his head.
‘Thank you, but that is not the reason I have come here now. I wonder. Have you seen any sign of disturbance in the church? Anything that would suggest an intruder has got in?’
Yaxley waved a dismissive hand, while still keeping his distance from Falconer.
‘The church is still open for worship, even in these uncertain days. Why should anyone need to break in?’
Falconer looked around, imagining he had heard another noise, but the church was empty still. Fleetingly, he wondered if Richard Yaxley was the thief and murderer. But if so, where had he hoarded the books Chetwyn had seen being carried off? And what about all the other stolen texts? The church was vast and full of secret corners, so it was possible to hide away any number of volumes. Suddenly, Yaxley’s nervousness at his presence seemed to have another cause than fear of contagion.
‘I was not imagining someone breaking in, but perhaps hiding away in here.’
Yaxley gave a little laugh.
‘There are many nooks and crannies, it is true. And you may have read my mind. I was thinking the very same thing, and that is why I am here. I have had the feeling for a few days of a …’ He hunted for the appropriate word. ‘… a presence in the church. I am frequently here on my own carrying out my duties as the guardian of St Frideswide’s remains. But it has only been recently that I have thought someone was watching me.’
Falconer was curious to learn more, though he remained cautious in case the man was the killer he sought, and was merely leading him astray. He took a step forward.
‘Explain to me what you mean.’
Yaxley disappeared behind the rood screen, and Falconer darted forward in case the monk was fleeing. But as he too went behind the wooden screen, he saw that Yaxley was walking past the high altar. The monk called out to him and went behind the altar.
‘It’s in here, by the shrine that I feel it.’
Falconer came up close beside him, neither of them thinking any more about the plague and its transmission. The vicinity of the shrine did feel strange, but Falconer thought that was only to do with the sanctity of the place. St Frideswide’s coffin was located in the feretory — the area behind the high altar — on a raised platform and enclosed by stone. He looked at the stone tomb, peering through one of the narrow apertures in the side which were cut in the shape of an ornate cross carved within a circle. There were three such openings set evenly in each side of the shrine intended for pilgrims to put their arms through in order to touch the coffin. Even as he looked, he thought he saw a movement inside the shrine.
‘What was that?’
Yaxley, who had been looking at Falconer, turned to look.
‘What did you see?’
Falconer hesitated, knowing that it was impossible for anyone to be inside the stone tomb. The apertures were too small to allow anyone other than a small child to squeeze in. But he had seen something, and he pointed.
‘There, behind the coffin.’
Yaxley’s face darkened like thunder clouds.
‘Not again.’
‘Again?’
The monk was already bending down trying to get his fingers under one of the slabs close to the shrine.
‘Help me with this. We have to lift it.’
Falconer saw that the slab was loose and scrabbled to get a grip on its edge. Slowly it shifted, opening up a dark hole below. The monk explained.
‘In years gone by, pilgrims were allowed closer proximity to the saint by crawling from the retro-choir here and under the reliquary. There, they could get into the shrine itself through a so-called Holy Hole in the shrine’s floor. It has been eighty years since its usage was stopped due to the damage caused to the saint’s coffin. Too many hands rubbing away the gilded ornamentation, you see.’ He peered down into the darkness. ‘But a few years ago some halfwit found this way in, and crawled into the shrine. It caused quite a stir, and nearly had me dismissed from my post.’
Falconer smiled, suddenly recalling the event. He had been present at the time. Why had it not occurred to him? Especially bearing in mind who he had seen in the street the other day.
‘I remember now. It was Will Plome, wasn’t it? From the troupe of players?’
Yaxley grimaced at the recollection and nodded. He called down the hole.
‘If you are there, Will Plome, come out this instant.’
A muffled cry came from the hole, but not a soul emerged. The monk made to climb down, but Falconer stopped him. It would be better if he went into the Holy Hole, rather than the angry Yaxley. The monk shrugged and stood back, and Falconer went down the worn stone steps one at a time. The dim light from above hardly allowed him to see clearly in the chamber below. But when he got to the bottom, he saw the fat shape of Will Plome cowering in one corner. And in the other lay a disorderly pile of books.
Chapter Fourteen
‘He said he found the books in the lane.’
Bullock snorted at the presumed naivety of Falconer’s comment. They were back in the castle, where Falconer had brought Will Plome. He would have trusted the lad to stay with the other players, but Bullock had insisted on locking him in the crypt of the disused chapel. Now, Falconer and Bullock were once again disagreeing with each other.
‘Of course, he would say that. He had a pile of books in his possession that were taken from Edmund Ludlow’s chest on the very night the regent master was bashed on the head and killed. And he had blood on his hands. Will Plome has a child’s brain. But physically he is a big man, and has the strength to overpower another easily. His thefts have been progressing to towards murder for some time. The death of Bukwode might have been unpremeditated, but once he had the scent of blood in his nostrils, he couldn’t stop. Ludlow was hunted out in his bed, and deliberately killed.’
‘But why?’
‘How do I know? You told me that the books the thief has stolen up to now were contentious books. Magic and science, you said, which are one and the same thing to me. Perhaps not content with merely stealing the books and disposing of them, Plome wanted to destroy the men who had read them. Both Bukwode and Ludlow had their brains bashed in.’
‘An interesting theory, Peter, and one that has passed through my mind too. But I just can’t see Will Plome hatching it.’
Bullock growled his impatience at Falconer’s pedantry. He could never understand why his friend didn’t just accept the obvious once in a while. He suddenly felt weary, and slumped down in his chair. With a wave of his aching arm, he questioned Falconer’s alternative.
‘You would put your money on the disappearing horseman, then?’
Brother Aldwyn, who had been along with Isaac Doukas, silent witness to the debate so far, perked up.
‘A horseman, you say?’
He fumbled through the pages of the book he kept constantly to hand. Finding his place, he read out the lines under his finger.
‘“Men will suffer most grievously, in order that those born in the country may regain power. He who will achieve these things shall
appear as the Man of Bronze, and for long years he shall guard the gates of the town upon a brazen horse.”’
He slammed the tome containing the Prophecies of Merlin shut.
‘When I saw you bring back that destrier, constable, I was reminded of those lines. With all that armour on it had to be the brazen horse.’
Bullock frowned.
‘And the man of bronze? Who is he?’
‘The prophecies do not make it clear. It is only later that the ‘Prince of Brass’ is referred to again. Here …’
Once more he delved into the tome in his lap.
‘“Once again the White Dragon shall rise up and will invite over a daughter of Germany. Our little garden will be stocked again with foreign seed, and the Red Dragon will pine away at the far end of the pool. After that the German Worm shall be crowned, and the Prince of brass will be buried.”’
Falconer couldn’t help but laugh at the nonsense, causing Aldwyn to scowl furiously.
‘So you are telling me that my book thief is a chimera, who will guard England for years until the throne is occupied by Germans. I can never imagine that happening.’
It was Doukas’s turn to offer a suggestion.
‘I think you are right about that. My master — Robert Burnell — is the king’s right-hand man, and I don’t imagine him recommending that Edward’s children be married off to some minor German princeling. But what of the simpleton Constable Bullock has locked away in the chapel? Why do you not think he did it, Master Falconer?’
Falconer looked out of the window on the troupe of players in the courtyard of the castle. Robert Kemp was juggling with three daggers, always neatly catching each one by the hilt. Simon Godrich was sitting with his back against the cart that held all their possessions scratching out some words on a scrap of parchment. Penning a song about Will Plome and murder, perhaps. Margaret and John Peper squatted by the chapel door, deep in discussion. Occasionally, John Peper got very loud and agitated, and Margaret stroked his arm and calmed him again. They would be debating the same thing that Falconer and Bullock were. The culpability of Will Plome. Unfortunately, his interrogation of Will Plome had proved quite unsatisfactory. The simpleton had been quite uncommunicative, and Falconer had got the impression he was afraid. But of what or whom he could not divine, and he had finally given up. Aware they were expecting an answer from him, Falconer returned to the people in the great hall.
‘I have known Will a long time. Or more precisely, I met him a long time ago, and have seen him from time to time since, when the players return to Oxford on their tour of the region. He is simple by nature, and I don’t believe he could have conceived of such a deeply evil plan.’
Doukas and the priest looked at Bullock for confirmation of Falconer’s estimation of the man held in the crypt. Bullock, his head aching, was feeling stubborn, and would not let the matter go, however.
‘He is not as you knew him, William. He has learned to read, and has had his head crammed with knowledge too deep for him to fully understand. It has addled his brains.’
He looked his old friend in the eye, harsh thoughts playing in his own head. He allowed himself to give rein to them for once in his long and presently tiring life.
‘There are those in the town who believe that too much knowledge can turn a head. That some of the great minds of the university consider themselves able to fathom the workings of God. And there are some who think they are above God in their understanding of the world.’
Falconer knew that the constable was referring to such people as his own dear friend Roger Bacon. The Franciscan friar had immersed himself in the study of astronomy, botany, mathematics, chemistry and even alchemy, the mysterious science that awed and fascinated thinkers. In the end, he probably knew more than any man alive. But all his knowledge had done him no good. He had been locked away from communication with his fellow men by his order, which feared his ferocious intellect. Falconer knew Roger had not accumulated all that knowledge to challenge God, but simply in a burning desire to know all there was to know. He knew the friar’s faith in God was not broken by it, but stimulated. It was Falconer himself, with his faulty understanding of the world, who lacked the faith that sustained most of his contemporaries. He realised that that the other three men were still staring at him, expecting some rebuttal of Bullock’s accusations. But he had nothing more to say in his defence. He held his hands up in defeat.
‘At least Will is safe where he is, innocent or guilty. I suppose I should pay attention to my own obligations, and see that the students in my hall are safe and well.’
Leaving an embarrassed and awkward silence in his wake, he left the castle and walked through a still and quiet town.
*
As darkness fell, he once more prostrated himself before God. This time he knew he had no need to wait for God to speak to him. He had seen Him for himself. His hot and fevered mind was awhirl with images from the previous night. The removal of blasphemous books from the hands of evil men had been until now carried out by his own agency at God’s behest. Now God himself had appeared to spirit them away from right under his nose. If he needed a greater confirmation of his actions, he couldn’t imagine what it might be. And God had smitten the evildoer into the bargain. His very body burned with righteous fervour, and his throat was dry as dust. Lying face down on the floor making the shape of the cross, he once again marvelled at the mark of favour granted him. He had seen God.
*
Falconer didn’t return immediately to Aristotle’s Hall, as he said he would. Instead, he sought the opinion of the person he trusted the most when he was perplexed and frustrated. Saphira le Veske was the most unusual woman he had ever met. While being utterly bound up in her Jewishness, she was completely open-minded about the world and all it contained. Falconer often wished the Christian world was as welcoming as hers. Once, Saphira had reminded him of the exhortation in Exodus. He remembered her words now as he walked through Carfax.
‘ “Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.” ,’ she had said. ‘We are expected to show hospitality to all, and that doesn’t only mean other Jews.’
He had joked then that she had shown him especial hospitality. At the time they were lying together after indulging in that greatest of intimacies that the Church frowned upon when between Jew and Christian. But she had been deadly serious, and didn’t rise to his humour.
‘I mean it, William. That is why I wish to learn about medicine from Samson. We must share with non-Jews all the benevolent works of a community, including supporting the poor, and visiting the sick.’
Those words came back to him now with a vengeance. He was still afraid that Saphira had put herself at risk in ministering to the crusader, who now lay dead of the pox and buried in the confines of the castle. He knocked on her door, and experienced a momentary shiver up his spine when there was no response immediately. Then he heard her soft tread behind the door, and the swish of her robe. A bolt slid back inside and the door opened. He slipped through the opening, admonishing Saphira.
‘You should have asked who it was before unbolting the door.’
Saphira smiled and stroked Falconer’s cheek.
‘Who else knocks so gently on my door so late at night? Especially on a night when only those on a special mission are stirring because of the pox. But I thank you for your concern.’
She took his hand and led him to the kitchen at the back of the house, where she began to prepare some food for him. It was a house she rented from a cousin, and she had never really made it her own home. She disliked the large great hall, and spent most of her time in the cosier confines of the kitchen, where a fire always burned. It often niggled at Falconer that she gave the impression that Oxford was only a temporary home for her. She had spent most of her life in Aquitaine, where she had effectively run the wine business that was her husband’s by right. Her elusive, and by now deceased, husband had been more immersed in the esoter
ic study of Kabbalah than in his trade, or his wife. Saphira’s son, Menahem, now ran the business, though he himself had been drawn to Kabbalah by his father at first. When his father had died, Menahem had disappeared, and Saphira had come to England in search of him. It was then that she had met William Falconer, and eventually settled in Oxford. But in Falconer’s mind the state of the house in Fish Street gave the lie to her settling down at all. He kept imagining that one day he would knock on her door, and she would be gone. He would have understood, of course, for what could he offer her other than clandestine trysts and illicit conversations? He was a regent master and nominally celibate and in holy orders.
‘What are you thinking, William?’
He realised she had asked him something, and he had not replied. Sitting down close to the fire, he sighed and stretched his long legs.
‘Of people and how little I really understand them.’
She looked up from the platter of cold meat and bread she had put together, and pinioned him with her green-eyed gaze.
‘That is a very philosophical statement. Who are you thinking of?’
He chose to lie to her, and led his thoughts away from his concerns about her and on to the matter of the murders.
‘I thought I knew a young man — a simpleton, but harmless and quite guileless in his way. Now he stands accused of vile crimes that I hardly imagined him capable of.’
He began to lay out before Saphira the complicated tale of the theft of rare and sometimes dangerous books that had escalated into deliberate murder. He explained the theory that the murderer was someone who wished to rid the world of books that in his eyes challenged faith in God. And that in the process he had perhaps progressed to erasing the same knowledge locked in the minds of the owners of those books also.
